La Pluma Perdida

It’s a sorry ass looking day

Home is an empty and dark apartment in Baton Rouge. All overcast and freezing cold for someone who can’t handle anything under 50 degrees. The few things I haven’t sold, donated, or managed to emotionally part with yet are hanging on the walls or laying pell mell on the carpet. An unsettling painting on the brick wall. A poem in the window. A mattress on the floor next to my wide-open suitcase. I’ve been living out of the suitcase for a few days now, like practice. Although I imagine that once I arrive in Merida I’ll be unloading that suitcase as soon as possible to give myself some semblance of a home.

I woke up late, hungover from six beers I had to have last night. Not sure what it is about these last few days in the city that has made me so sloppy. I dragged myself to a 9AM video call and tried to act like a human being. I half-assed my way through the day until Mitch came. Mitch and I reconnected for the first time in a few years just a few months back, rekindled an old friendship from high school that we both neglected. Maybe two weeks later I bought a plane ticket and started planning the great escape.

We talked for a few hours here in the empty apartment. He has dreams, ambitions and some semblance of a life plan. I emphatically don’t. I never really have and maybe I guess I’ve reached the point where I can accept not having a real plan. Some folks are the 5 and 10-year planning type and I guess I’m not.

Dinner with Mom, last we’ll probably have in a while. Three lite beers and I guess I finally sold the car. Cold ass night out there. Dark and wet. Not the type of day that’s going to make me miss this city. Then again in three weeks I’ll be bitching about the relentless heat. The melatonin is kicking in and the beer is wearing off. Tomorrow makes two days until my flight.