Deeply moved.

I used to live in New York City. Now I live in Carversville. (Actually, I'm closer to Point Pleasant, but how am I going to be a big, mean S/M Top if I'm from Point Pleasant?)

I'm moved. It was pretty traumatic.

On Wednesday night after welding class, the Baron and I drove (River Road to cross the bridge at Frenchtown, NJ, Route 513 to Route 78, 78 into Jersey City) for the last time. Thursday (was Thursday really yesterday), it was marathon packing day. The Baron and I got up, and started putting things in boxes. We were joined in this effort for much of the day by the redoutable cubby. On Thursday night, the Baron and I drove across the river. We went to this nice cheap italian restaurant the Baron had discovered on 9th Avenue in the 40s called Basilica. Then we stopped in at Ty's. One of my fellow Ballbreaker's was behind the bar. I just about got weepy talking to him. He asked me to wait a minute as he had to run downstairs. He emerged from the basement not with beer or liquor, but with my softball trophy. The Ballbreakers were the division champs for the season. Dig.

Then, this morning, the movers showed up. The movers were great guys. Three sweet guys who didn't stop once, and didn't even break a sweat. (I wouldn't have minded if they did.)

With them following me, I headed west on 78 to 287, picked up 202 South from 287, and took that all the way to Buckingham, where we turned onto 413, and then up to Gardenville, right onto the Point Pleasant Pike, took the turnoff onto Ferry Road, and there was my life in a truck in the driveway of my father's house.

Most of the stuff was unloaded into the garage, but the larger pieces of furniture (my bookcases and stuff) went into my room. So for the next several weeks, I'm going to be channeling Thom Felicia getting things together here. I want to paint. Pale yellow is Not Me. I'm thinking a nice mud color with a bright orange accent somewhere.

So, y'know, life is hell. I don't have a job. None of the ads I called in the paper have called back. The management company of my condo is moving to foreclose on me as I owe them several months of maintenance. I have less than no money.

But I know where I live.

Here I am. Showing up on this doorstep bruised and beaten, and they took me in. I feel as though I just climbed a mountain, and now I stand on precipice, surveying the valley below. It is a moment of equipoise, before leaping down the path to commence this next phase of my life journey. With the simple moving of furniture, I feel that everything is different.

One more thing before closing. On the drive back, the Baron (God bless him for being with me every step of the way through this tumult, and being the perfect companion; and God bless cubby, too, whose sacrifice and service are--as always, but especially in this case--deeply appreciated) was asking me about my sister, and about the source of the sadness in her life. What, he asked, had disappointed her?

I told him that possibly part of her makeup was the fact that fear prevented her from doing things. When she was in high school, she received a full scholarship to the Philadelphia College of the Arts. But she didn't go. She was afraid.

"What specifically was she afraid of?" the Baron pressed. "Was it leaving home? Or going to school in Philadelphia?"

"Well," I said, "I think she never had much confidence in her own abilities. She never thought that her art was any good, because making it came so easily to her."

Holy shit.

It hit me. I know exactly what that's about. I feel the same way. A writer? I'm running away from that. Why? Because whenever anyone, regardless of their credentials, has anything complementary to say about my writing, I discount it immediately. Nah. Not that good.

I have no chutzpah. No confidence in my own abilities whatsoever.

I related to the Baron how during my senior year of high school, when all of my fellow seniors who were only doing it so it would look good for colleges they were applying to had all drifted away, I pretty much singlehandedly wrote the final issue of my school paper. I remember when I returned with the faculty advisor from picking up the paper from the printer. We came into the teachers' lounge with the boxes of the East Wind hot off the presses. "Guys," said Mr. Kean to his fellow teachers, "you've got to read this. It's great."

The other teachers looked dubious. But they dutifully took copies and started to peruse. Soon, all of them were laughing till tears ran down their faces, reading my words aloud and laughing all the more. (This was good. They were all humorous feature articles that I had written.)

So maybe during this season of my life, I'll get that together. I'll write.

Maybe.

I write. I live in Carversville. Everything else is a work in progress. Of these two things alone I'm sure.

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