Dear Diary 003: Black Magic and Sharpee Pens
I can’t remember what my house in Portland looks like.
More disturbing, that doesn’t bother me a single bit.
I thought I’d miss it by now, but all signs are pointing to something I already knew: there’s a gypsy hiding inside of me.
It’s not that Tucson is so mind-blowing. It’s a town like any other town with maybe a higher percentage of strip malls and a glut of catci. I just needed a change, I guess. And I got it. It’s all around me and it looks like sunshine and dirt roads and long climbs.
Road season is about to start which means that you better not blink, because before you know it it’s going to be August and I’ll be complaining about the lack of rain. Years are like flash floods these days – they come out of nowhere, wreak some serious havoc, and then disappear.
There’s a long list of shit-t0-do in 2010 which may or may not include an extended adventure-project in Sicily and France, a less-extended escape to New Zealand, some weeks or months of remote working in the Bay Area, throwing a godzilla-sized anniversary party at The Cleaners, and, um, possibly a bike race or two.
I’m writing everything on big sheets of white paper with a black Sharpee pen and taking the list one line-item at a time. Permanent markers have proven to be an excellent way to will goals into reality (we kept a church-like progress thermometer of savings growth when we lived at Sal’s parents house to save for a down payment on our first home).
This year’s list started with something I wrote late last summer: “Get the hell out of Portland for the winter.”
Which now looks like this: “Get the hell out of Portland for the winter.”
Crossing that sucker out took some serious doing, let me tell you. But the payoff is better than expected.
The Sicilian is getting skinny. And tan.
I kind of hate him.
He just looks at a glass of water and loses weight.
I suspect black magic.
Which is also probably how the Saints won the Super Bowl, but that’s another story.
There’s a lesson in these quiet Tucson hills and I’m doing my best to sort it all out. While Sal climbs his way to tininess I’m still putting in 50 or 60 hours of work every week. I left my job four years ago to do my own thing and I never imagined I’d actually be able to support both of us someday.
Again, I suspect Black Magic.
But it might be the Sharpees.
No one really knows for sure.
Either way, I fall asleep every night with a heart full of gratitude for the skinny Sicilian kid next to me and all the radness that the world is leading me to these days.
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