I'm moving out of this apartment in three weeks, and I do not even want to contemplate the transition process. The former tenants of this decrepit cavern had left various knickknacks, including a futon frame, full boxes with dogeared flaps, tacky paintings, a mildewed shower curtain, half empty bottles of liquor and half full ashtrays, as if, in their harried scramble from this place, they could only make off with the essentials, and therefore bestowing the newly burdened with offerings of hope and haunting.
Not quite "The Amityville Horror", but the series of unfortunate events that coincided with my residence in this moldy brownstone almost suggests that an evil omen has been trailing me. But let's not be silly and superstitious - any rational person would tell me that the past year of breakdown and haze (and lack of diaryland entries) is due to a struggle, common for those my age, especially given the travails and boys and beliefs that I have gone through.
Last week, L. accosted me at the campus coffeeshop and said, quite emphatically with furrowed brows, that she wanted to speak to me. Turns out that she was considering my place of former employment (excuse me, independent contracting, due suits-and-cigars wanting to bypass legal clauses obliging him to pay medical insurance for twisted ankles and septum perforations). Scared me, because we are so internally similar, and her primary reasons for wanting to do so are so similar to mine. She was backed up into a financially gully, and she was (more importantly) bored-to-death in this faux green bourough, where we read everything and do nothing.
During the conversation, I realized, for the first time, though the sweaty place may have dripped onto my canvas a few unsavory stains, there's nothing that stops me from doodling a few tendrils near the the smudges, and voila! we have a flower, we have art, we have a certain egress, if you will.
Two nights ago, I did something I've never done before. I went out into the city on my own, with the plans to study at a fartsy coffeehouse and then to loiter at bars for conversation and free martinis. But I only made it as far as the coffeehouse before I was accosted. They were entertaining: an older, artsy crowd, with various men vying for my attention. One of them was a palmistry expert, which instantaneously caught my attention. I have an unusual abberration, the Simian Line on my right hand. Often the Simian Line is associated with medical problems (commonly, it is found on the palms of primates and those with Down's Syndrome), and also internal tension and intense ambition. He informed me that I did not have a pure Simian Line, since there are vestigal heart and head lines trailing up and down. I am fated to have upcoming personal earthquakes, leaving me with a non-retard palm.
I believe that he was a bit of a kook, and proceeded to drink away his premonitions on his tab, but there is a trend of change in the air. Not just a change of locale, though a fabulously decorated apartment downtown with a certain winged scorpian will be a treat, nor occupation, just....
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