in which we drive in the rain

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There is a storm happening in Connecticut, to the left of me, to the left of this bus, somewhere near a Marsh Hill Road, which I’m sure means something to someone, but to me, it’s just a place we’re passing. There are little flashes of lightning and then  wider. I see a Wal Mart and a Friendly’s and some condos. Closer to Hartford, there will be a row of billboards advertising porn stores.

We have been promised free WIFI and plugs on this bus, but neither works; the plugs are all for show, it seems, not generating power, and the WIFI is undetectable. A woman with a loose bun, wearing a pink shirt is mad.

Yesterday I moved out of the apartment. I didn’t think it would ever happen, I did not really imagine what it would be to not live there, even if I hadn’t had designs on Brooklyn for years. On my way out of the house with the movers, I resisted the urge to sit down on the couch and watch TV, as though nothing were happening, as though there weren’t boxes everywhere that made it all obvious and unavoidable. 

Darin Strauss writes in Half a Life, “The truth about shock and about our bodies is that they don’t want us to feel things too deeply.” I slept at S’s last night, and each time I woke up, which was about every two hours, I’d think about my bed and my room and how important and complicated that apartment has been to me, and that feeling wasn’t exactly despair, but a sense of emptiness and confusion.

Amherst, now, for a while, where I will write and consider some things, maybe everything. The rain has stopped, and outside the bus window, it looks like it’s cooled down, but I know better.

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