Bottle pop

A few days ago, I was convinced I was going to have a post called "Pink Bicycle Blues" and had even thought of the beginning of a poem in connection with or in lieu of such a post. The events of that day were so abrupt and upsetting as to be easily conducive to setting things down on paper, but the momentum of everything carried me to the next day's harried light and beyond. Even now, after multiple aid by multiple gentle friends, the house is still not entirely rid of its old residents. And I find once again the impossibility and yet seeming feasibility of wrapping up a life into cartons, pouches, suitcases zipped into silence.

I wish I'd written that poem. But where would have come the time? As it is, we are calling it an early night today due to collective and cumulative exhaustion at 1:19 AM.

The good thing is that I very likely have a flat in Boston and will get to see a dear friend before she flies off to her very own longterm, live-defining program. Oh and Third Year Japanese is over. Sekkaku zenbu wo owarimasita. When I have recovered enough, there will be some belated elation. Perhaps even over a plate of cured meats in lovely Roma, which has until this summer eluded my camera and palate. The unsuspecting tourist flytrap will soon be descended upon by me and my extraordinary mater familias... I must take an obligatory photo of us in front of the bewilderingly extant Coliseum just to have proof of this surrealistic happening.

The nights have recently become very chilly. I will close the window now and contemplate the possibilities of a closed room. So much needs to come out.