writing writing writing.
All these words, flying around in my head, I'm sending four page emails and blogging twice a day and talking on the phone and just writing and talking and words, everywhere. They're on the table, in piles behind the couch, on everything I touch, like little grains of sparkly sand all over the place.
I've been in the apartment all day, and it's literally Perfect Summertime outside. And I've just got so much to do, that lounging around just isn't on the docket right now. Save for a few chunks of getting immobilized in all the packing, it's been a pretty productive day. Tomorrow, I have to sort through all my clothes, pack up the off-season stuff, sort out anything I can sell, donate what I can donate, and be done with it.
This Is All Happening.
I've wanted it to happen for so long, and I've been so stuck, and the timing is just how it should be, but this shit is just fucking scary. Scary for what's coming, scary for what's happened - I took my earrings out, but I loved them all. I don't know all the way who I am anymore, so I don't know how I'll do when everything is new - so no matter which way I turn, everything's different and gone and all there all at once.
Thelma and Louise is on. Stacey keeps talking about how we're all driving off into the sunset, except if I remember correctly, they drive off of a cliff after they kill a couple of people. And they like, blow up a gas station or something I think. Oh, and because I have a Polaroid camera.
Good thing we quit drinking, right? Right.
Although... no. So what's left for tonight... the cds, and maybe the shoes, I've got the computer all straightened out, I might have to just throw in the towel and like, watch a movie or something. Or do some non-packing/purging stuff, like bills. Oh, I could shower too. That would help.
I think there's a fine line between being completely incapacitated emotionally, like, seemingly retarded - and totally pure and sane of both thought and deed.
I also think I often straddle that line.