Final cut

It's unexpectedly painful cutting the cord between me and work. I just finished clearing out all my stuff. It has taken day after day of sorting and piling and tossing and shredding and carrying. Tomorrow I turn in my keys and strip off my parking sticker. From now on, if I drop by, I'll have to search for visitor parking.

But it's not all bad. I feel lighter, liberated, adrift.

Friday evening I take off on a road trip, first to San Diego for my niece's La Jolla extravaganza wedding, then north to Portland to visit my all-grown-up son. I want to dawdle along enjoying the scenery. I want to get off the freeway. The freeway grabs on to me like a drug. I get caught up in the zooming, hooked on "making good time." I must resist.

The other night I watched the indie film, Mysterious Skin. I can't believe I had never heard of it. I saw the beginning more or less by accident, had to leave, recorded the rest. Months passed before I watched it, too busy keeping up with all my chronic weekly shows. Pedophilia's wounds, through the lives of two boys, radically different boys, growing scar tissue around the injury in different ways. Amazing film. Tough. Real. Deeply moving.