Last things.

Everything's boxed up and ready for the movers tomorrow. I am currently conducting business from my Mobile Command Unit, which is essentially a stack of milk crates and a couple of yoga blocks. My fridge is home to one clementine and half a jar of salsa, and I am on my fourth coffee of the day. It's Zero Hour, friends: that delightful point in the relocation process where you've taken the curtains off the windows so the neighbours can watch you weep openly as you stuff another loose screwdriver into the box marked "miscellaneous fragile" and wonder what the hell you are doing.

I hate moving. It makes me antsy and weird. I'm a Cancer, which means I am an antisocial homebody. Living out of boxes is bad for my spiritual complexion. Every time I move, I wonder why I don't just run back home to my parents' house and hide away forever. Happily, this is exactly what I'm doing this round, so maybe, just maybe, this will be the last time I ship out of anywhere. I sure hope so.

On the other hand, I love moving. Leaving someplace behind gives you free license to nostalgise the hell out of it, and given that I've fallen harder for this little town than for any other place I've ever lived, I have a lot to think back on with fond wistfulness. Here's a rundown.

Best freelance gig: Kingstonist, the Limestone City's finest blog. Rarely does an editor give you complete support and editorial control, not to mention free wine. Come to think of it, I really should've taken more advantage of the opportunity to promote my Marxist-Leninist pro-labour agenda.

Best poutine: Pita Grill on Princess. Discovered lamentably in the twilight of my tenure.

Best place for an all-encompassing epiphany: Yoga Samatva.

Best place to see a show: The Grad Club. Thanks, Virginia,
for making sure I got to see all my favourite bands here.

Best road out of town: A few months ago, Highway 38 toward Holleford Road would've had my vote. I still urge you all to drive it sometime, because it's really pretty gorgeous. But times change and now I'm solidly in the Highway 10 camp, because it leads to Westport, sausage rolls, and eventually, my best buddy in the world. I'll always love driving north out of Kingston, regardless of which route I take. I love going from city to country so damned fast, disappearing into those rolling hills.

Best Plot To Take Over the Library Universe Breakfast Meeting Place: Star Diner. If you like your revolutions with a side of the world's best hash browns, this is the place for you.

Best friends: Aw, you know who you are. Thanks for the memories, my dear pals. You haven't seen the last of this lone wolf.

Vices.

In times of transition, I find I need a lot of crutches to prop myself up. A few of my old standbys have reared their ugly heads in the last week or so. I rely on the sublime and the ridiculous to get through the sheer mayhem of packing, drinking, overthinking, and general solitary contemplation. Hello, old friends. I've missed you.

1. Coffee. Sweet nectar of the gods. I think the thing I'm going to miss most about Kingston (besides all of y'all, of course) is Coffeeco, and their epically amazing cappuccinos.

2. Dolly Parton. I love her. I just. love. her. She makes me feel tender and kickass at the same time.



3. Calvin and Hobbes comics. Nothing beats the sweet pondering and sincere existentialism of the world's most endearing smart aleck six year old. I recommend the Tenth Anniversary Collection for fellow fanboys and girls, but if you love Bill Watterson like I do then you probably already own the first edition.

4. Wallace Stevens. So help me god, I'll be a self-righteous English major till the day I die. The Course of a Particular slays me dead.

5. Cyndi Lauper. Presented without comment.

idiot wind.

The top 5 songs that are distracting me from packing right now, Ray Lamontagne doing covers / Dylan covers / Dylan free association edition:

1. Ray Lamontagne and David Gray--Dig A Pony



2. Ray Lamontagne--The Man In Me



3. Bob Dylan--If you see her, say hello


If you see her say hello Bob Dylan
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4. Ramblin' Jack Elliot--Don't Think Twice, It's Alright



5. Wilco--Company In My Back



...I always need to throw a little Tweedy in there. He's like a fine sorbet, cleansing the palate.

Literary tag sale.

Over the years I have acquired a truly prodigious collection of ragged library discards, and tonight, in anticipation for my latest move, I tried to cull the shelves. THIS IS A HARD TASK. Here's what made the cut, and what didn't, and what I still can't make up my mind about.

Keep:

Flowers in the Attic by VC Andrews. (A classic. And also the first book I can remember borrowing from the library, and then reading surreptitiously, and then thinking to myself, I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY LET ME CHECK THIS BOOK OUT. Come to think of it, this book may be responsible for my library career.)

Baby-Sitters Club Super Special # 6: New York, New York! (I am re-reading this critically acclaimed tome in anticipation of my trip to the Big Apple next week; if I can be even half as sophisticated as Stacey McGill, my life will have been a worthy one.)

The entire Anastasia Krupnik series by Lois Lowry. (I always wanted to be a character from the Baby-Sitters Club, but really, I knew I was a huge nerd like Anastasia. Also, in the first book, when her parents ask her what she might like to name her baby brother, one of her suggestions is "One-Ball Reilly.")

Forever by Judy Blume. (I can't let go of the book that was responsible for my romantic and slightly creepy impression of what sex would be like.)

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. (Because someday, just maybe, I will actually read it.)

Teen Star Yearbook by Grace Catalano. (How else will I remember that Scott Grimes' favourite food is hamburgers? Or that George Michael's favourite sport is badminton? Or that Ricky Martin, of Menudo, is looking for a girl who is "serious and responsible"?)

Lose:

Deenie by Judy Blume. (Scoliosis is so 1974.)

Bunnicula by James Howe. (Oh I loved this book but it smells like mothballs.)

Undecided:

Sweet Valley High # 66: Who's to Blame? by Francine Pascal. (Elizabeth is running away! I need to know what will happen!)

Liberace: An Autobiography. (I have problems. Serious problems.)

I hate packing.

April really IS the cruellest month.

Four years ago, I was in Vancouver, re-reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and falling in love with Daniel Clowes through a beat up Eight Ball compilation I borrowed from the Hastings Library and wondering how I was going to get through the summer all alone on the lonely coast.

Three years ago, I was still in Vancouver, getting high at Kits Beach and trying really hard to finish Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. I never did get through it. I was otherwise occupied with the arduous tasks of polishing off one's stash, shipping one's belongings back across the country in the most inefficient manner possible (thanks, Canada Post. I am pretty sure you still have a pair of my Hush Puppies), and wondering what I was running away from.

Two years ago, I was in Ottawa and actually believed I might stay here. I was reading The Kite Runner and actually believed I might enjoy it. (I was also reading 26a by Diana Evans, which has since landed on my top ten dysfunctional family novels--full list forthcoming). I was pretty busy with saying I love you to the wrong people and having brunch dates that started with a friend coming over to change my locks.

One year ago, I was stranded at Dulles International Airport, reading Real Simple Magazine and discarded sections of the New York Times, willing myself not to go crazy. When I finally got home I nearly kissed the ground outside the Ottawa airport, which is a terrifying testament to my delicate state of mind. 24 hours in an airport can really change a person, man. I came back philosophical and committed to making good life choices, and then I read a bunch of self help books. Date Like A Man was not one of them, but I do intend to re-read that classic chestnut soon--its lessons, like a bottle of cheap Chardonnay, grow more dangerous with each passing year.

This year, I'm picking myself up, dusting myself off, and starting all over again. I've had a Chuck Palahniuk book sitting on my bedside table for months, as well as most of Stephen King's Dark Tower series, all on loan from someone who refuses to take them back till I get through them (proof positive that I am still saying I love you to the wrong people). I'm packing up again, but this time the move is much more organized (and in no way supported by the postal system). This part of the trip's going to be easy, I think.

I get restless in springtime. For once, this round, I can do something about my itchy feet.