Life is wild, so magical, all the same old stuff keeps happening: I reach a place of change, get afraid, depressed, and lose hope. Like Montaigne said, I’ve suffered many horrific tragedies that took place in mind and nowhere else.
I thought I was moving to this place in Montecito, up the street from where I’d been the last ten years; then things fell through (because I talked politics), and miserable wondering where I was going to land, found a place on the Mesa. I had half my stuff loaded, showed up after the holidays and had a falling out with the landlord. There were red flags leading up to it, caused the falling out on purpose. Threw stuff in storage, freaked, no cool place to land. Then got a call. Turns out this place is not only better than the Mesa, it rivals the place of the last ten years. For me, perched on a hill in Summerland, my window the Santa Barbara Channel, I wonder if I could be happier. This new place has space for my table too, to make colorfields. Life is wild, can’t wait to finish painting, new carpet, all that.
The political science is active, still working with the NYCGA. Like I figured, based on past experience, they’re balking at dropping the squirt gun and picking up the fire hose. I think some people like the idea of working for a convention more than actually having one.
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