So I'm home.
I haven't really been writing but on the occasional...occasions I make it to the keyboard I've been working on this photo essay about going to Cornell a couple of weeks ago that I started...a couple of weeks ago. When it finally arrives, it will be every bit as enlightening and entertaining and chock full of photographic goodness and wholesome verbiage as the obscene amount I've time I've spent working on it would suggest. (Lie.)
The condo is no more. The condo is where my best-friends-in-the-world Trevor, Chuck, and Alecia lived up until a couple of days ago. Chuck and Alecia moved back home (or, I should say, to their respective homes.) Trevor moved into an apartment he will share with his sister when she moves in at the end of the summer. Besides my three best friends, the condo was home to two cats, briefly three; a leather couch I slept on as much as my own bed when I came back to Phoenix the first time; a staggering collection of liquor bottles; any number of empty-beer-can structures knocked down, thrown in the recycle bin, then promptly replaced within the week, if not the day; a layer of carpet-filth peppered with cigarette and hookah-coal burns and spilled god-knows-what; a giant black-and-white picture of a Young Boy from A&F that watched you as you peed downstairs; a similarly giant picture of Snoop and Pac above the fireplace; police citations; a stripper pole; a balcony perfect for bullshitting and smoking; at least two magnetic poetry sets; a miniature Zen garden; a Playstation 2; a bong named Nightlife; nights I was there for and many more that I wasn't.
It's empty now. The carpets have been cleaned and the locks are changed. The new owners will probably actually lock the door. Come to think of it, they might not have drinking habits and they won't ever pee off the balcony. They sound like lame fucking pricks to me.
Everybody's still around, but something is definitely over. I tried to find a picture to sum it up. Couldn't. Here's a kitten instead:
Her name is Awesome. She's at home with Chuck now.
What are we doing tonight?
And yes, that's a picture of my ass. Who wants to know?
Today, I'm homeless.
They kicked everyone out of housing today at noon so I dropped two obscenely heavy bags with all my worldly possessions in them at AJ's office with the help of Fran and Gregor then me and Dominic went and got food. I realize not all homeless people can afford the six dollar lunch special at Spice (Dining halls have been closed since Wednesday and fending for myself food-wise has done a number on my bank account, which hasn't the balance to sustain frequent number-doing.) Dominic had to go to the UCB offices; I met up with Fran again. She is homeless for longer than me: a week, in fact, although I realize that not all homeless people get to stay with their friends upstate and on Long Island, respectively, until their plane to Chicago leaves. All my stuff locked in AJ's office until, assumedly, tommorrow when the Super Shuttle picks me up in front of Tisch, I went to the NY library and got a Salinger novel (Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters) and a Bukowski compilation (what matters most is how you walk through the fire) and chased patches of sunlight around the park, reading and half-sleeping, 'till my reverie was broken by a crazy woman, whose shouting every word of the Marshall Mathers LP which she was listening to on her headphones was broken every now and again by peals of witch-laughter. Then I went to the Kimmel Center, doing an odd hey-isn't-it-funny-how-things-come-full-circle thing in my head since I used to go there a lot at the beginning of the year before I got, y'know, friends and things to do. I slept on one of the long, long couches. I found random books on the street and, remembering how earlier today the guy who works at the book-buying counter at the Strand (used book store) said they only took books in like-new condition, bought High Fidelity and David Sedaris' Naked off me for a buck each and left me to drop collections of Greek plays and other bookweight in the books-for-the-children-of-Africa box in the lobby of what was, until noon, my dorm. The books I found were like new, so I took 'em Strandward. Girl at the counter where this morning the man had been said A) we won't buy those (no reason was given) and B) we don't buy after 6. She apologized. I detoured towards my former dorm and the library of the children of Africa got four paperbacks richer. I realize not all homeless people cannot hang out in their school libraries updating their online journals, then go get something cheap to eat before going to a free improv jam at the UCB at midnight followed by sleeping on someone in Alphabet City's couch. But you have to realize that I am not all homeless people.
Tommorrow, I'm home.
Where I am told both of my little brothers are having sleepovers so I'll probably go to Tempe and drink with Three Of The Best Friends A Guy Could Have and sleep on another couch.
This library computer's background has a picture of The Boss, and Clarence the saxophone player. Tell me everything isn't gonna be OK.