This will be short. It's getting late and I've got a 9-hour day tomorrow. St. Louis to Akron, OH. Before I leave, though, I have to go to the Subaru dealership and get my electric seats fixed.

If you're just tuning in, the electric controls on my car seats stopped working on the second day, and they stopped working in the middle of moving to a better position. Therefore, I'm stuck in this too high, too close, back too straight sort of place that leaves my back, and my mood, highly irritated. I really hope the seat thing is easy and I leave by 9:30.

I realized too late that I should have planned today better, and made an appointment this morning to have it checked out today, but I'm at my Dad and Babs' and it's really comfortable and its family, and I just wanted to chill. And, then my friend Connie from high school texted and asked if I had time to meet up. So, we had a great lunch (thanks for lunch, Connie!) and caught up -- I'm happy to say that she is gratefully ensconsed in her big family with the right man.

Then, I went to Pattonville High School and walked around and took pictures. It's a very large high school. I graduated in a class with more than 600 graduates. It's even bigger now. However, the cafeteria and the gymnasium are in the same place, with the "popular locker hall" in between. These days, the hall primarily houses the janitorial staff's lockers. But, the girls bathroom at the end of the hall where some of my friends and I snuck cigarettes was still there! It wasn't until I had the iPhone raised to take the picture that I thought about what I was doing...good thing the school po-po didn't catch me.

There was also the PHS Hall of Fame - a wall of photos of high achieving graduates on one side of the gymnasium. And, there in the 1980's was Lance Thornhill (he played state level golf) - my BFF Claudine's boyfriend from back in the day, and photo blocker extraordinaire. And, it appears that our band's baton twirler Heather Smith's dream of becoming Miss Missouri came true! She was sweet, and smart. I'm having a hard time wording this, but the photos looked like the photos on the same wall that I used to look at when I was 16 out of curiosity about the hairstyles and clothes of another era.

Anyway, and more importantly, last night my friend Liz had to euthanize her dog Pig. I met Pig the day Liz and Jon adopted him, and I was one of his overnight babysitters during the last decade. I saw Pig the night before I left on this trip. He wasn't eating anything - and I mean anything. I knew something was off, but I kept my mouth shut. It was obvious and I figured Liz wanted to put off speaking it out loud for as long as possible.

And, at some level, I didn't want to realize that Pig was so sick he couldn't be fixed. You see, Liz' husband Jon died in December -- unexpectedly at age 42. And, her other beloved dog, Shaggy, died before Jon. When I think of what Liz has had to bear over this last year, my mind goes a bit blank. I think that the facts just speak for themselves.

I hope Jon, Shaggy and Pig are sitting at an amphitheatre in the sky listening to Jerry...and getting butt scratches...

I guess I'm going to remain about one day behind. Just like I feel an hour, maybe two, behind with each mile. I've been listening to this audible book called "14." It is described by its publisher as science fiction along the lines of "Lost." Which it is, actually. The narrator is good, and can speak various characters without all of them blending together. These two aspects make this a very enjoyable experience for me.

But the book is set in Los Angeles. I only lived there for two years, but I get almost every reference. There's also this play on "Scooby Doo" throughout the book, along with various other cultural references that are spot on for me - perhaps my demographic generally.

On the other hand, today I drove from Kansas City to St. Louis, MO, with Columbia in the middle. I went to college in Columbia - University of Missouri, Columbia. It was there that Tracy, Jeanne, Beth and I became friends. The drive from Columbia to St. Louis used to be as familiar to me as the drive from Oakland to Santa Cruz is now.

So, there was this reunion with my past happening over the last few days --culminating in my drive "home" to my Dad's house, near St. Louis, where I went to high school -- clashing with my recent past. I'm feeling a bit disoriented. Not really feeling in place. It's not that I don't feel "grounded," or connected with reality. Nothing that dramatic. I just feel a bit dysphoric with respect to time and space. There are pieces of story from my high school years to my present co-mingling. Living together. Taking up each other's space.



My stepmother Babs something today about cats, as I'm traveling with Chester and Bellie. She said that cats are place oriented, not people oriented. That dogs will go anywhere with you, but cats are tied to places. I've heard this often, and I'm sure it's true to an extent. But, it has seemed to me in the past week that Chester and Bellie are fine as long as we are in the same space together. They don't like it when I leave the motel room, and they don't like it when I leave to go have fun with my friends, or have pie with my Dad and Babs.

They like it when I'm there, making the space around them feel familiar. Doing my thing like I normally do. On the computer. On the phone. Reading a book. Having chats with them. I don't have to pay them any particularly specific attention - just the normal. It's as if activity and person constitute space for them. And my flip-flops. Bellie lays on my flip-flops for the first few minutes we are anywhere new. Oh, and they like their food placemat an special softy pillow.

I may be completely anthropomorphizing, however, because I am both very place-oriented, and very people oriented. And, I carry my "home" with me when I move to a new place. My "home" being my Cherner chairs and table; my 19th century tongue and groove desk; my mother's Persian rug; my enamal key bowl (which is actually more like a plate); etc.

I moved a lot as a kid - and not because I was a military brat. I didn't move with my family in toto. I was unfortunately caught in a divorce at too young an age to be able to understand what was happening, why decisions were being made, or have any say or control about those decisions. I moved to different cities in 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th grades.

When I moved to Columbia for college, I lived in a dorm. I immediately set out to find a group of girls to "live with." The girls I went out and partied with, or hung out with at the student center were different. But, I always went home to my dorm "family." They were Pam, Jill and Brenda. I tried to Facebook them and be friendly, as I did with Jeanne and Beth (Tracy and I have remained in contact all along), but it didn't really work. Pam responded a few times, but it just didn't take. I will credit Pam's husband, Troy, to introducing me to the Elvis Costello song, "Alison." It's not spelled correctly, but it is remarkably on point.

Regardless, after my freshman year, we all moved out and lived in a 4-bedroom duplex, and when Brenda moved out, Tracy moved in. That's where Tracy came into my story. When the year was up, Tracy and I moved to Rockridge Road, eventually meeting up with Jeanne and Beth. With the advent of Tracy, my home friends became the same as my go-out friends. I suppose I was growing up a bit. Or consolidating.

Now, even though I don't always do so, I like to live alone. I have since the second semester of my second year of law school - the first time I did live alone. I moved out of Laura's place and into this great corner apartment on the third floor of an old 1930's work project, brick building in downtown Sacramento. It was like living in a treehouse. It was smallish, but had amazing built-ins in every room. I lived there with my cat, Iko. Iko who came from my college family of Tracy, Jeanne, and Beth.

Living alone is peaceful. I can trace my routine into the fabric of the space. Find the best location for each item that I use in my home. The key bowl just there. The kitchen scissors just there. The bed just there by the side of the window where no one can see in, but the breeze can wash by on warm evenings. I create a performance space for one. One and two cats. I move effortlessly from one line in my routine to the next. Paths etched from efficiency and lack of effort. 

Living with another can be difficult for me. When I say, "I need my space," I'm not really saying that I like to be alone. I'm saying, literally, that I need to inhabit my space - all of it. Not this room and that space there, but I need to draw chalk outlines of myself on walls and floors. To mobilize my routine with a well oiled freedom of movement. And control. Over where things are. Where they are placed. Put.

I'm not that demanding, though. There are just a few things. But those things are essential. And not negotiable.

I never know what they are until I move into a place. Because each place is different. It's not just the rooms that are different. Although, they usually are. The light is different. The shadows are different - even if you always move into a place with western facing windows. The furniture placement is of course going to be different. The cabinets, the closets. All different.

So, I thought living out of my car, as I am now doing and will be doing for several months, would be bad. But, it's just sort of happened that my car is now organized to my perfect perfection, and my cats and I have a regular routine on our long days of driving across this great nation.

And, that dysphoric feeling? Well, I'm about ready to drive to a town that is about two hours from East Granby, CT -- the town I grew up in after being born at Hartford Hospital. I'm going to take a little, short road trip there and I'm going to drive the roads to my childhood home. I guess I'll have to make room in my perfectly packed suitcase for a little bit more...

Well, I've been having so much fun this weekend with my college friends that I forgot to write last night! Had a great dinner last night. Jeanne cuts her own rib-eyes and she BBQ'ed a few last night - nice and rare. Mmmm... Beth brought a carrot cake and Linda, Jeanne's wife, brought home some dark chocolate covered marshmallows from Trader Joe's. See how I'm focusing on the desert? Double mmmmm...

Once again, we were up until after midnight talking and laughing, showing pictures and swapping stories. Yesterday's stories weren't of where we'd been together 25 years ago, but rather where we'd been separately over the last 25 years. I've noticed that I don't have a lot of detail recall from all those years ago. Maybe because I was doing a lot of self-medicating all those years ago. However, I remember and have fallen right into my relationship with each of these women.

Tracy and I lived together for almost three years in college, two of them in the duplex where we met Jeanne and Beth. I  was floating around without mooring when I was a young adult. I had run through the IUD's of divorce for years and years, and put up with an abusive step-father and a revolving door of step-mothers.

When I met Tracy, et al., I was still a girl. A feral girl. There's that corny line about angels appearing when they're needed. Well, they did, and I dove inside their wings and loved them each in my own, furtive manner. At the time, I didn't yet push away the hands that pushed my hair out of my eyes, or brought me coffee in bed. I didn't waver in my belief that no matter how wild I might get, those three women I loved would love me back.

Today, my heart is a bit worse for the wear. These past 25-years have shocked it into a state of wonder at the uncertainty of human nature. 17 years of litigation calcified, for want of a better term, my aura. And, then there's our "society." The state of nature is becoming more and more transparent for me. Maybe for all of us. I don't know.

Whatever the cause, I've realized in the last few weeks - - not that it started with my RDP, but my realization has come into relief given the extremity of the situation with her -- that at some point, I started to believe I had to earn my portion of love; measuring out what I had to do for a spoonful of love. Here and there. Including enduring relationships with the unworthy (except my ex-fiancee Aaron) and jobs requiring 70-hour work weeks and unreasonable bosses (understatement).

It an obvious maxim, for any of you who relate to this sort of existence -- and even to those of your who don't -- that this isn't the type of existence that leads to happiness. Another angel appeared. This time, it was actually me. I had the foresight to follow up on a suggestion to attend a yoga/meditation class at a local meditation center. This was about 1999. What a great dead-end to my little thicket of suffering.

At that time, I was almost catatonic with fear and anger and blind need. These practices saved my life. Just as literally as my friend Jennifer saved my life when she Heimlich'ed a piece of steak out of my throat in our cottage kitchen so many years later.

(Of course, I was also suffering from a chronic physiological illness that contributed to all that chaos and suffering, but again. I'm not ready to come out of that particular closet. So, I'm leaving breadcrumbs...creating some literary conflict to resolve later...)

Where was I? Such a habit, digression. Oh! I'm right here!

So, yesterday morning, I was sitting in Jeanne's plush leopard print chair talking to Tracy who was sitting in the plush purple chair across from me, and Jeanne came up behind me and started to stroke my head. Like a mother would. Like someone who cared would. And, I forgot to tense. I forgot to jerk away. And, Tracy said, "Don't you just love her hair." (Do you hear the Arkansas cadence?) And, Jeanne said something nice. And, I started to giggle. And it was like we were back in our duplex living room where I would be curled up in the round papason chair, people playing cards, music playing. Drinks being drunk.

Moreover, Tracy had been listening to me. And, I'd been listening to her. And, she wanted to hear me. And, I wanted to hear her. There were about 20 minutes of complete, undivided attention. No google'ing, no texting, no interruptions. Just sharing. I'd forgotton how much I appreciate Tracy for her ability to meet my ability for focused attention. It's affirming. I hope it is for her.

She told me the story of her husband, Shayne. Apparently, he'd been too nice to date, and she'd broken up with him. At some point afterward, Tracy's lupus flaired, "big-time," and she became so sick that she was forced to quit her job. She was miserable and scared, and so when Shayne called to check in. To see if she was ready to try another date, she broke down crying and allowed him to care for her. Her defenses were down, physically of course, but emotionally as well. She says she was able to see him. See what a good man he was. Soo how sweet and caring. How accepting of her. In a way that was, from what I heard her say, about as opposite of her first husband as possible.

Makes me think of a person in my life right now. Someone who is patient, yet persistent. Kind, yet not co-dependent (yet, anyway!). Welcoming, but not making some some preturnatural absorption-like Alien demon fetus implantation. Which is, whether exaggerated or not, what I feel like I am still pulling out of my gut.

What happened today? Well, it was a long and boring 9 hours through Nebraski and Iowa, and I just spent four hours laughing and telling stories with my college buddies: Tracy, Jeanne, Beth and...me! Jeanne's wife, Linda, and their friend Jana joined in on the revelry. I wonder what they were thinking as we discussed pink bikinis, extensive cocaine use and forays into threesomes. (Who? Me?) So, I can't really remember that long, boring drive. Even Chester and Bellie were preternaturally quiet.

At one point, I convinced myself that Bellie had crawled out of the sunroof when I stopped for gas. I called out to her and she didn't churp or come to the front. Chester did, though, and we cuddled a little. I called her again. No response.  Bellie is a very social cat; an attention whore. Just like her Mom. So, I called louder. Again, no noise, no Bellie, no nothing.

I then screamed. Yes, I screamed her name over and over and actually started to cry, imagining her wandering around at that gas station, all alone. In the dark. Her perfect pink and black paw pads encrusted with grit and gasoline. It was horrible. Horrible. I pulled over on a windy highway in the dark, put on my hazards, turned on the light and crawled halfway into the back of the car. And. There she was. Sitting as pretty as a picture on the pink flannel pillow cover in the cat carrier, her front paws crossed one over the other. Just looking at me with her trademark steady green gaze, as if to say, "You're so silly." 

Now it's funny, but a trace of that panic still bubbles in my belly. I cannot imagine the reality of not having my cats by my side. They are my family. I love them and they love me. Anyone who says cats aren't loyal, or attached to their people, either don't know cats and therefore spit out the party line, or have superimposed their interractions with cats with their ridiculous insults.And lack of insight. Hm. Sounds like my RDP. (By the way, that means Registered Domestic Partner. I guess it's a California thing.) 

And, now, back in the present moment. Tracy is sitting to my right with her beautiful blue eyes, batting her long eyelashes and hypnotizing me with her Arkansas honey toned voice. She's taught me yet another Southern colloquialism, "we all carry our own bag a' hammers." Hers is Lupus, mine is a secret. Well, I need to come out at some point, but not now. Not ready. Anyway, she's not sure it's Southern, but I want it to be.

The first time she taught me a Southern colloquialism, I was standing in the kitchen of my Mom's redwood house in Scotts Valley, California in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. She lived there with my stepfather, Gerry, who at the time was still a mean drunk who leared at my "boobs and butt" as he so often said to me. It must have been Christmas because I remember the rain, and I remember bitching about something. And Tracy just said, very reasonably, "girl, don't get your panties in a wad." Oh my god, I laughed.

I did my best all day to say "no" to the negative nellies poking me on the inside of my skull. The best I could do was be highly irritable and yell a lot at how poorly others were driving. Especially the WalMart trucks. Terrible. ABF truck drivers are good drivers. That makes me happy as Tracy's family runs ABF. I always get to be reminded of my sister-friend whenever I see the green detailed big rigs. Also, they missed my initials by one letter. The letter, however, is my sister's middle initial. I used to think that was really auspicious. I think I still do.

I finally got off the 80 after three long days. Took the 29 South to Kansas City, Missouri. All of a sudden, the scenery became pretty again.

Missouri is my 6th state so far: Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa and Missouri. I'll be here the longest, in Missouri. I'll stay the weekend with my friends, and then drive a few hours to St. Louis and stay a few days with my Dad and his wife Babs. I hope I get to see my high school buddy, Diana, too. Go to one of her yoga classes. She teaches this chakra yoga, which I thought sounded a little new agey, as if she pulled it out of West Marin County (across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco and one of the most expensive places to live in the country). However, on my last trip to St. Louis, only a few weeks ago, I was really sweetly surprised to experience how heartfelt and grounded her yoga felt. I look forward to another class.

I really love my friend Laura. She calls me every day in the car, and puts up with me ranting about my soon to be ex, or let's me say only "I'm irritable so can we not talk?" Sends some texts, but doesn't push me into socializing when I don't want to be, or simply can't because of the sink hole's sticky goo that still trails off  my back bumper, the faux racks on the top of the Subaru. Wheel wells. You see what I mean. I hope so.

So, it's very late. After 1 a.m. Central Standard. My cats are waiting for me in the guest room Jeanne and Linda have so thoughtfully made up for me. Tracy is already in hers. And, Jeanne and Linda have been dragged to bed by Gracy and Tanner, their wonderful dogs. I'm sure Cash and Cricket the cats are all snug in there too.

What a great night. After such a long day. To be around people who knew me at such a different time in my life. Reminding me of the silk side of my, as the Chinese might say, "interesting" life choices.

Did I tell you that Jeanne went out and got me Mexican food? Tracy called me about 20 minutes away from Jeanne and Linda's house in KC as they were worried. Apparently, it was 9:30, not 8:30. Oops. My car time is different than my phone time which is different from my computer time. (There's time pushing me around again.) They insisted I tell them what I wanted to eat. I said Mexican. They told me that they had it there at the house. Instead, I walked in the door, hugged and greeted and exclaimed and smiled and laughed with everyone but Jeanne. "

Where is Jeanne?" I say. "She went out to get you Mexican food." This one act of kindness brought all my irritability to its knees. Where it should be, saying thank you thank you...

So, last night I couldn't sleep and started to read On the Road. Seems that Jack went out on the road right after his marriage fell apart, and at the beginning, Dean was in Salt Lake. I don't want to read too much into anything, but I thought about the similarities. A long road trip is serving to distance myself from my failed marriage and the drama that surrounds my ex at all times. It also is serving to separate myself from myself. The self mired in someone else's sink-hole. The self that chose to be mired in someone else's sink-hole. Internally, I am driving out of those choices. Literally, I am driving away from those choices. I'm not sure there's much of a difference between the internal and the external anymore. Buddha did say that what you think - is.


But, day two is now completed! A 9 hour drive from Salt Lake City to Sidney, Nebraska. A lot of downhill resulted in getting about 540 miles on one tank of gas. Once again, I'm in a Motel 6 - this one is a little "nicer," but doesn't have a bottle opener in the bathroom. Oh, well...

 

I was tired today. Drove in silence for about 2 hours while the cats rustled around in their carrier high on kitty valium. My mind was unfocused, and all the negative stuff really took advantage. Like the Taliban. So, I turned on an audible book and drove in a numb haze for a few more hours.


Stopped at three places - let the kitties out at the first one. We hung out and drank water together. I was driving in altitude and didn't want anyone dehydrated. When we stopped in Wyoming, it was at this lone gas station/deli place. They were so incredibly nice. They even mailed a postcard for me to my neices and nephews.

Listened to some country music, some classic rock, and then an NPR program on the legalities of the arrest of the 19 year old marathon bomber who is an American citizen, but was still not marandized based on "imminent" threat even though the Boston police went on air to say that there was no more threat after they shot a gazillion rounds of ammunition at a bleeding, unarmed suspect. The government can do that to a non-citizen, but a citizen? I think the boy needs to be locked up for life -- to be that susceptible to others's ideas of right and wrong (that's what he's saying at least) is very dangerous. But, it's the right to an attorney to negotiate information in exchange for not seeking the death penalty or other consideration that seems to be the big issue. At least to OJ's attorney - too weary to remember his name right now. Maybe to me too. I hate that we don't extend Constitutional rights to non-citizens - do we believe that every human as these rights, or don't we? Let's really spread democracy and a right to representation and a trial by one's peers.  But, I digress. We'll see. Interesting case.

Speaking of legalities. I just wrote a draft of a confidential settlement agreement and sent it to my RDP's "representative." Apparently, she's so upset that she can't even email with me. This has been going on for about 6 weeks now. I keep thinking how strange it is - she broke up with me! She was "done" with me! Why am I ok with this break up and she isn't? Why is she mad at me for being so mean to me and refusing to talk about anything but what to watch on t.v. - for like a year! The world she's living in right now doesn't seem completely attached to what is actually happening. I saw her for the first time in 6 weeks the day before I left. She was in a "I'm a hotshot" mode - complete with new, expensive sunglasses (wonder where the money is coming from?). Her comment, "I have nothing to say to you." And angry! So angry. She's been bullying me for weeks on end at this point. I now understand how frightened she must be. Seeing her like that - I know her and saw the pose. Saw the insincerity of her "I have nothing to say to you." My guess is she has a lot to say to me. About me. But, really, after having seen her and seen her angst, I sincerely wish that she be free from all the suffering she's going through right now.  

Ok. Well, I'm really tired. Gotta' sleep so I can get up and drive to Kansas City to see three of my favorite college friends! Time to drink a cold one and cheers to the me that has driven out the sink-hole...

End of day one of the big cross the country road trip. It turned out that it really took about 12 hours to get to Salt Lake City. Went by fairly quickly. We stopped twice for a real stretch, and as the big pregnant moon rose and the sun slipped behind the planet, Bellie and Chester stayed out of their carrier and curled up on the seat next to me. I was so happy there with my little family driving under a near full moon that I couldn't stop smiling for some time. I've now arrived in a Motel 6 near the airport - I think I missed the Big Salt Lake, but maybe I'll get to see some extravagant Mormon Temple in the morning as I drive out. I certainly could see the bottle opener on the bathroom cabinet within reach of the toilet.

The first part of the drive I was sort of out of it. I had to wait to leave until business hours in order to get a Termination of Domestic Partnership form notarized. The settlement agreement is an entirely different story - the one I got from my RDP doesn't even try to comply with the relevant sections of the Family Code. Rather, it was a transparent attempt to communicate just what it is about this break-up that she thinks are important. Like stiffing me on her half of the last utility bills. There I was, thinking that the loss of our love story and our family was the important part. Silly me.

I am also not surprised, and am disappointed that I am consistently not surprised, at her slightly irrational and bleak actions. For instance, she waited until 7 p.m. the night before I was leaving for a cross country trip to "serve" me with all sorts of papers that didn't quite add up to what needed to be served. And there was no process server. Regardless, I had to get a form notarized before I left California. So, instead of getting an early start, I got out of town around 10, and hence, didn't get to Salt Lake until 11:30 local time (10:30 PST).

But, I digress. Which is what that relationship has really been all about. I got off a highway, stopped at a Starbuck's and got talked into taking a job there by a charming, sexy, sweetly old-fashioned woman. Three years later, I walk out of the Starbuck's and realize that she's gone. Well, never was, really.

My friend Laura doesn't understand that metaphor but I think it's appropros. Starbuck's is about the right level of shallow that I walked into with my RDP, and then drowned in. Takes some doing to drown in an inch of bullshit. And, yes, I know that my first sentence ended in a preposition. Fuck it. I'm tired.

Halfway through the drive, in the middle of the Nevada desert on the I-80, I turned off my audible book and drove in silence for about three hours. I love the desert. It's so endless and yet contained by far off mountains. And they used to be covered by ocean. I love the heat in the day and the cold at night. And the desert got me thinking about why I love to drive so much. I love road trips and I love to drive in silence. Not the whole time. But audible books or music are more like the drum and bass line until I find my lyrics and at least one kick-ass lead guitar solo.

Today, it was about time. When I'm driving in a car, time is measured in miles, and I'm moving with the miles. Traversing time by moving miles. Tends to make me think that driving, or flying, or being in a train or bus is like being time itself. Then again, most of us also walk and run and go places. We're time itself then as well. I guess. This is a tricky sort of experience, or idea, to put into words. It's more like a feeling of the absolute impermanence happening within the absolute nature of emptiness. And, vice versa.

Anyway. That was a fun few hours of thinking about shit I find interesting. I was hopped up on a lot of caffeine and nicotine (yes, I'm a failure and a loser and totally addicted to nicotine).

Driving into Utah with the almost full moon in front of you on top of these really cool layered rocky mountain things with the red sunset shining in through the back of the car -- no words. Really. As my friend Jennifer and Kate taught me - one can get a little high on pretty.

And then there were the final 2.5 hours of dark driving and getting a little lost before finding the Motel 6, and signing in with my legs crossed. I tried to pretend I was in a yoga class but fuck, I had to go. And, then unloading of litter box, 2 cats, suitcase and food bag. Ate a little Wildwood Thai Tofu and light Triscuits. A little light English Cheddar. Drank my Metamucil and am now enjoying, yes ENJOYING, a last smoke before I turn the lights out. Well, all except one. I'll get scared without at least the bathroom light on.

I downloaded a copy of Jack Kerouk's book today. Totally extraneous, unecessary cost. Until I thought about Ginsberg. Who wouldn't buy a copy of "Howl" if they were ready to howl? I don't know. But, I'm about ready to get on the road. Still resolving last minute details - details of monumental proportion, mind you. But, still. So, I downloaded a copy of "On the Road" today.

Today is Tuesday, April 23, 2013, and it is the day before I leave on a cross-country road trip with me, myself and my two cats, Chester and Bellie. I am leaving the Bay Area after living here for about 17 years. Coincidentally, I am also leaving behind a 17-year career as a plaintiffs' litigation attorney. Right now, I am one part me, and many parts unknown. So, tomorrow morning, I will load up myself and my cats into my Subaru and head out on the road. Unlike Kerouac, I am not leaving any dependants behind, and I am a progressive, 21st century, middle aged woman rather than a mid-20th century chauvinist. Like Kerouac, however, I write and think and dharmatize for fun. I may even party like Kerouac -- at times -- with large intervals in between.