Good, Byes?


I’m moving. From the aerie I have lived in for three years: a sort of elegant prison where I have isolated and waited like Rapunzel for something wonderful to happen.

We have had some marvelous times here – birthday parties and late nights on the balcony listening to the inevitable white noise of the ocean. This is also where my alcoholism took flight like the determined pods of pelicans, the only birds daring enough to fly this high…

All the smart people I know have been telling me to move for two years. I came here in the frenzy of downsizing from my marriage “dream house” (another belated enterprise) and stayed out of fear or lethargy or both.

I did what I always do when really important decisions are in the offing; I waited until the last possible moment and then wildly inconvenienced myself with unshakable resolve. It’s like a hair shirt.

Oh, and I’m homeless.

But I have a really nice air conditioned storage space with a Ponte Vedra address. Maybe I could fix that up?

Today I’m not drinking because I’m fucking moving.

How come you’re not drinking?