I've got the drop on you.

from: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]
sent --- 13:08:10, 9.8.08
to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]

subject: RE: Grace Cathedral Hill just wont be the same

On April 3, 2005, My Niece whom you may know from IAJD as Little Alexis, turned 13 years old. Also on that day, I woke up in my 79 Volvo 242 GT just outside of Redding, California after a two hour nap. My cat, Maui, was sleeping on my lap, and everything I owned was either in the backseat or in the trunk. A few hours later I merged off the 505 and onto the 80, and then there was me, on the apex of the Bay Bridge with both hands up and through my sunroof, with Los Halos on my stereo.

But I've told that story before. Here's a new one.

On August 16, 2008, I dropped my dear friend Keenan off at his house in a 12' long orange Penske truck, and after getting a little lost due to some construction, I was finally pulling onto the 80. Yael Naim came on the radio, and it was foggy as it likely should be when one is moving from San Francisco, and the lanes are so narrow and my truck was so big that I feared looking back for one last glance--but I did. And as I did I swerved in traffic, but I saw the fog thick over downtown and all of the spires peeking from the clouds. It was just a peek, but as I looked back at the road ahead, and corrected back into the lane, I knew that I would write this down. Somehow. Someday.

I guess that day is today.

Yeah, you're right. I can never escape knowing that I very well might write any waking moment down on paper, but fuck, Alan. How am I enjoying living in the end of my book? I don't know, because I'm not--because even by your rationale, the end of my book ended right there--New Soul blaring loud in the cab, my cat sleeping under the drivers seat, me looking back for one last glance and saying goodbye to the last three and a half years. Audibly. True story--I said goodbye out loud to no one in particular as I started to cry.

Don't assume this has been easy for me, because it hasn't. Would it be easy for you so sit in a truck for 19 hours going over and over saying goodbye to your best friend on a street corner just outside of the Castro while she cries and gets in a cab?

I'm sorry. This is stupid. Let me redeem myself.

On Labor Day, 2003, I sat way up high in Memorial Stadium with Kyle, and half way through R.E.M.'s set, I burst into tears after hearing the first six unmistakable notes of Night Swimming. Five years later and a week ago today, Kyle and I were laying around in Oxbow Park with the roomies and neighbors and some friends drinking mismatched beers and trying to recuperate from the night before. I have been friends with Kyle for pushing ten years now, and through all the shit that's gone on and all of both of our numerous indiscretions, we're still both just trying to figure out how to be us. That day, after barely dodging getting arrested, we found out that naked slide-riding is probably not the best way. Oops.

The point is that I'm not making stories, I'm trying to make a life, and as much as it may seem that I'm trying to re-hash the past way up here in my home town, I'm looking for what is here that is new with a bunch of people that are not. There are the old haunts, yes. But there are new ones too, and besides debating the age of my soul or the weight of my character or even statisfying any amount of years with essays and paper and all of these strings of words, I will tell you exactly why I moved here.

I want to show myself how to live.

And even though I once used this as the reason I wanted to stay in SF--

No, I'm not ready to die just yet.


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