Holiday from Real

I made it to Seattle in one piece, despite flying out September 11th.  I'm crashing on a friend's floor for a little while until I get my shit together. I've put in over 80 applications and I've got a part-time job now. I'm waiting to hear back on a few other interviews.

In the meantime I've been busy falling in love--with Chinatown, with my culture, with the sights and sounds and the lights and the buzz. Maybe my inability to settle down and all my moving and traveling was supposed to bring me here.

Or maybe I just got lucky. I feel pretty lucky; in fact I haven't been sad since I left Norfolk. What's done is too fucked up to fix and therefore not worth crying over, right?

I'm glad to be doing good for once.

You don't realize how much stuff you have until you're moving.

I've reached the phase in packing where I've barely made a dent in it but the task ahead seems insurmountable. I have too much stuff, and he has too much stuff, and it's impossible to extricate all our stuff from how it's gotten mixed up over the last few years.

Which is why I'm on the Internet instead, avoiding the sea of Things at my feet--Things that belong in boxes, and trashbags, and suitcases, that I wish would have the decency to put themselves there rather than rely on me to do it for them.

I would probably feel a little less helpless if I wasn't also projecting my insecurities onto the cat, who is marching around and yelling at me like a little dictator or an angry child. All I can do is shush him and tell him that I have no answers for him and stop asking.

I am moving to Seattle on Saturday. I have no idea what I am really doing with my life from then on besides I hope studying kung-fu. I am unprepared and slightly scared.

Regardless, I have hope.

I have hope, and empty suitcases, and too many Things.

Back to packing.