In typical Bristow fashion, I meandered downstairs after my shower, prepared for cereal and a second cup of coffee, when I found a note on the kitchen counter scribed by Dad that simply stated (to no one in particular) "Aunt Fran is dying".

Background information- Aunt Fran is actually my great aunt, who has been, effectively dying for 10 years, as she has alzheimers (which is degenerative). But now from the sounds of his note, her death is in close proximity. which, though sad, is actually a relief for everyone- especially my grandmother (her identical twin) who has watched her spend the last five years lying in the bed of a nursing home. she eats, showers, gets dressed, gets her hair done... while she's asleep. when we visit, we all talk to her and say nice things and kiss her wrinkled, fragile, paper-thin skin... while she sleeps. she's been sleeping for five years in a bed. she's ready to go. her bags have been packed.

bristow's love shock value. hey, if mom and dad are going to adopt a child and get a puppy, I'm going to move to madison. And then Lydia's going to go ahead and get engaged.

will calvin announce a pregnancy?

It was weird to try to sign into my mbeans mail and have my access denied.

It's not that I needed anything in there. It's just habit. Check my gmail. Check my mbeans mail. Check my facebook.

Dad, Cass and I got an enterprise van totally filled with my stuff, and then father and I made the quick trek home. I'm currently lying in my sister's childhood room, cats- in complete anger and fright- huddled under the bed.

I miss everyone. This week has been a whirlwind. None of my goodbyes felt real. I'm still wrapping my mind around the idea that this is not an extended vacation, but an actual move. A change of location with no planned return. Still, I haven't been plagued with worry, doubt, or regret. For someone who always worries and doubts decisions, I'm impressed. Dad told me how proud he was of me. I love my family.

Still can't believe Lydia's engaged. What does a Maid of Honor even do?

Mostly packed.

Dad is coming to get me tomorrow morning/ early afternoon. Mik's coming to help me pack and clean. Cassie and I are supposed to get breakfast. Breakfast may not leave my kitchen, however. I don't think I'll be able to... but I'll play it by ear.

I can't wait to see charlie. that's tuesday. we start driving wednesday.

Hopefully this guy, Nathan, tells me he's able to rent the apartment for the month of April. That will be a huge weight off of my shoulders. If not, I'll figure it out.

today is gray, dismal, rainy- the kind of day you secretly celebrate while resigning yourself to movies and the couch all day. sadly, that was not in the cards for me. I don't even know when I last watched a movie. but i still appreciated the rain. and all the visitors (sarah, ben, betsy, lydia, todd, hillary, beth).

i've been reading about how to take a road trip with a cat. it's a shame my situation is plural.

I woke up in a fit of panic early this morning. My mind raced through every box that I've packed so far, as well as everything I haven't packed, as I was overwhelmed with the sudden realization that I haven't downsized enough. There's no way it will all fit.

When I was able to come to terms with the fact that yes, indeed, it would not all fit and I may need to repack in terms of necessities and dispensables, my mind cycled through random last-day thoughts. This is the last day I'll ever spend in Boston. This is the last day I'll ever spend in this house. Tonight is the last night I'll ever sleep in this room. Tomorrow is the last time I'll ever see this house. The finality of it all.

Sarah has been snoozing next to me in bed and now Leopold, in a rare and touching moment, is cuddling with her. The cats are bent out of shape with the packing, emotions, and shift in schedule. Frequent visitors don't sit well with them.

In exciting news, my sister is engaged. Todd proposed to her on Friday night and we all surprised her last night at a bar called Sweetwater Cafe where we danced, had drinks, and admired the ring (and her recent manicure). She wants to get married in less than a year, which means that along with a new city, state, and part of the country, I have a wedding to orchestrate- as Maid of Honor.


........is it too early to start looking at dresses?

Orchestrating a move is kind of a big deal.

but, I digress.

Marcus walked into my room, whence forth he saw me in bed on the computer and burst out, "What are you doing sitting there in the middle of boxes and piles of clothes! Get up and pack!"

Of course I sheepishly dragged myself out of bed and emptied my bookcase into a crate. I can't just pack and go though... I have to spend time reminiscing. I stumbled upon a reasonably new Pablo Neruda book that I purchased shortly after Christmas- fat, thick, and rich with word, verse, prose. It's truly amazing. I promised myself that I could flip open to any page and find a poem that I loved instantly. Which I did. And though this is one I would generally be a bit timid to post on my blog, I do, in jest, love it.

Morning
XII

Carnal apple, woman incarnate, incandescent moon,
seaweed's sodden aroma, the bog's and the mash of the light--
what shadowy rigors open between your columns?
What primitive night is touched by a masculine nerve?

Ah, love is a voyage with water and a star,
in drowning air and squalls of precipitate bran;
love is a war of lights in the lightning flashes,
two bodies blasted in a single burst of honey.

Kiss after kiss, I recover your little infinitude,
rivers and shores, your body's diminutive clan,
the genital spark, made dear and delectable,

that races the delicate pathways of your blood,
breaks up from below in a gout of nocturnal carnations
unmaking and making itself, leaving only a glow in the dark.

XXVII
Naked, you are simple as a hand,
minimal, supple, earthy, transparent, round.
The lunar markings, the pathways through the apple,
are yours; naked, you are slender as wheat.

The Cuban blue of midnight is your color,
naked, I trace stars and tendrils in your skin;
naked, you stand tawny and tremendous,
a summer's wholeness in cathedral gold.

Naked, you are tiny as your fingernail;
subtle and curved within the daybreak's pink
you thrust yourself into the subterranean world

a tunnel's length through our duress and clothing:
your clarity trims its flame, unfurls, or covers over,
and again you issue, naked as your hand.


XXIX

You come from the destitute South, from the house
of privation, regions made hard with the earthquake and cold
that gave us hard lessons in living in the chalk and the clay
while the gods whom they worshiped were spinning away to their death.

You are a little mare carved in black clay, a kiss
dusky with pitch, beloved, a clay poppy,
a pigeon of twilight that fluttered its way on the roads
and followed us into a childhood of want, with its tears.

You who always preserved your heart's poverty,
girl with the feet of the needy, accustomed to stones,
whose mouth was not always acquainted with sweetmeat and bread:

You come from the destitute South that once nurtured my soul;
in her heaven, your mother goes on washing clothes
with my mother. Therefore I have singled you out to be my companion.

This always happens with cereal.

I'll have a bowl of cereal in bed with my coffee. (Lately, it's been trader joe's maple and brown sugar frosted mini wheats.. patrick turned me on to them and they come highly, highly recommended) I put the bowl on the table next to my bed, and continue drinking my coffee, reading my emails, helping angry customers resolve their problems, etc. At which point some wily cat catches the scent of the milk and slinks its way up the bed for a drink.

Some mornings I shoo the cats away and frown upon this behavior and some mornings apathy takes over. This morning? Itty Bitty- it's all you.

Today is the 8th day of my 8 day work week. I hope I can make it through without offending any customers. Then I'm to enjoy Friday, Saturday, Sunday off. By "enjoy" I mean pack. Or attempt to schedule my life as such that I'm not in the house at all... time shall tell.

Marcus, Brian and I ate a delicious (albeit overpriced) dinner at Zaftigs tonight... potato latkis, steak tips, vegetables, cupcakes, coffee, soda....

for some reason, we thought it was a grand idea to buy three cigars at a sketchy citgo station in the neighborhood. marcus and i sat huddled in the car while brian went in to do the deed.

the cigars were horrible. the three of us sat, legs crossed like men in the living room, puff puff puffing these cheap, big cigars, picking the stale, dry crumbs of crackling leaves out of our mouths, listening to cars drive by and watching candles glow. it wasn't as romantic an affair as i just made it sound- i have a tendency to do that.

today i finished day 4 of an 8 day working stint. it's excessive. i feel tired and ready to retire to my bed.. permanently. except my room is in constant disarray getting things packed up. it seems early to pack (if I'm leaving around the end of march) but i'll be thankful when moving day rolls around in 2 weeks and i'm all ready to go.

this is all good. but it's all hard to believe.

early morning subway musings:

The familiar, musty scent of male cologne is wafting down the train platform. Like an older man, in his attempt for youth, bathed himself in Stetson, letting the pungent oils settle into every crease and fold in his skin- dousing his face, slicking back his hair. As if this strange ritual was sure to attract every eligible woman in a 50 mile radius- offending their senses, berating their nostrils, and leaving them light-headed and vulnerable to his advances.

I'm trying to find the culprit- usually it's a 60 year old Italian man with a gold chain nestled into his overabundant chest hair who catches your 1/2 second gaze and nods and smiles. I know then that I've only encouraged his behavior- furthered his belief that these tactics are effective mating rituals. That every woman fantasizes of drowning in a sea of ambrosial sweat underneath a hairy, Italian man. Ignore his advances and you're simply playing hard-to-get. Can you win?

Charlie is convinced that I have a sleeping disorder.


He offers adorably helpful suggestions such as "drink tea before bed" or "get into a stretching routine", "take Valerian root", "relax your mind" "count sheep" and I keep reminding him that it's not that I *can't* sleep.. it's that I don't *want* to sleep.

Is it so bad that I consider sleep to be a colossal waste of time? That it inhibits my creative genius? Think it an unnecessary expense of time? There are a million things I deem more worthy of my time than sleeping.

It's hard to look into his precious face and tell him, "sorry, baby, I just hate sleeping".

It probably is a disorder. But fixing it would definitely be a colossal waste of time. And then, my time would be doubly wasted- once on fixing my sleeping disorder and twice on actually sleeping.

His thoughtful, caring suggestions are starting to wear on my willpower, however. He may prevail after all.