Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Poetry Night at the McGurkens, Part Two

So I'm moved in to the new place. There are Russians everywhere--which makes me wish I'd done more, um, retention practice in my undergrad years. That said, we did have a good time in that Russian class, B and I--she spent more time in my classes than she did in her own. Perhaps it was the delicious, full-palated nature of the Cyrillic alphabet. Mostly, though, I'm pretty sure that it was this: Tuscaloosa is just eons cooler than Starkville.

I hired professional movers. It was a cold Sunday, and a good day to not be lifting/axing heavy objects. The McGurkens were out of sight--but totally within listening range. Even as I was putting the last few bits into the bed of the truck, I could hear the cursing/yelling/money-begging/groaning. They were an adventure to live near--but I will not miss their troll voices or the creepy interest they demonstrated in my life.

Anyway. The move happened mostly flawlessly. Not effortlessly, but flawlessly. The only thing missing, really, is Schnapps. But I guess that might be poetic justice. Perhaps there is some value to cycles and circles--other than rhetorically, I mean. Maybe personalities leave and enter our lives in similar fashions.

If that is the case, I wonder... can I predict endings? Am I like the Oracle of Delphi, but with more control over the meanings of my own utterances and deliveries? Are we as formulated and sprawling as TS thought? I like that idea, sort of. I like that idea better than pedantic priests telling me what it is I say and do not say. Balls on someone else's misguided interpretations. Balls, I say.

Considering my new-found skills of prophesy, I was thinking of doing some predicting. But that might be (read: is) way too morbid for a Tuesday night musing.

So. Instead, I will let you imagine the ending, dear reader. Show me what you're working with.

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