Today, I make a point of packing at least one box a day. two, or more if possible. I’d like to have everything ready to roll comfortably by a week from Saturday.
First thing to attack – my books.
Also, it’s time to decide if some of those things I haven’t used in the year since I moved here get purged, or retained. I’m a terrible pack-rat. I think that the Atari ST will be trashed… I have an emulator for the PC now… and I really haven’t booted the machine since it arrived.
The reel to reel recorder can go to goodwill, along with many of the clothes I’ve not made use of.
I’m keeping the Godzilla slippers.
I’m keeping my ties, in case of a court date, funeral or a wedding. (Unless the wedding is very lax, I won’t wear my Godzilla slippies there)
Old stereo… I’ll probably toss, but will keep a few of the albums. (real albums… even if I don’t have a turntable… the nostalgia is great.)
Free-flow thought…re:walkies to the mall of the dead
Who has left this golden day,
I don’t know, but I have found it…
Beautiful morning, remember me?
Who sat here once in days of spring…not all too long ago
Flowers were everywhere here… even in the doorway…
These ruins… the Parthenons of Pompano
weeds and cans and broken bricks… and I am a child again,
across the blowing fields
On this spot three years ago in pouring rain I leapt a puddle to help a crying baby… shortly his mother retrieved him and thanked me.
strange soft day… I think now of the time when I’ll be somewhere else, and the land will still be here.
I look up and see trails in the sky , a silver plane so silent… the airships will remain here, too. I’ll miss the blimps.
Old telephone pole covered in staples…there must be thousands.
Only on a day like today do I remember to notice such obscure treats.
Walking, wandering like a breath of air… floating like a cloud.
So many old places here.
Heavens have rolled by
oceans of pavement
long gray lines of time…
since I last really looked at this spot.
they were supposed to tear down the mall years ago
no one knows why they never did.
look at the windows
like eyes frozen half closed, in the moment before sleep.
look at the drain pipe hanging half off
look at me standing here looking at it and talking to myself.
remember blowing soap bubbles in ’96… waiting for a ride.
cross-legged and smiling
in the parking lot
like cheap toys
fall from my lips
footprints echo from the past,
skies stare out from my shielded eyes
daytime wear on the heels of my shoes
I am here now,
wandering in and out of myself
my mind makes invisible phone calls to parties who don’t need to answer.
it’s enough that I reach to them.
life seems to be in slow motion
and the laughter sounds like angels
shadows move before I can look at them
and reaching out of the dark
behind my back
ghosts of moments gone and done.
barely just alive
like tingled vertebrae
scamper through the rattled junk
I may not return to this place again
even if I do… it won’t seem the same.