all professionals have no time, we are both professionals, therefore we have no time, and other syllogisms

R sends me his schedule for fall, so we can coordinate weekends. It's full of conferences and presentations all over the country. He's still in school, people just shell dosh to have him show up places and talk about things I don't completely understand. We see each other for a week in September, and have mapped out weekends in the other months from here to December.

This is a prelude to the next ten years, I think I want to be a part of his next ten years, I want him to be part of my next ten years. On the schedule, we're doing the formal event date thing this fall, official public introductions.

Tonight: packing to move. When first moving out, somewhere about nineteen, I had a u-haul full of furniture and things seeming so necessary. Since then, I've lived about ten places and have never hired a u-haul again.

A current inventory moving tomorrow:

Ironing board/drying rack/iron
2 Andy Warhol Ice Cream Bowls
3 Cookie Sheets
1 Bedroom Side Lamp
Box of Framed Pictures
Box of Books, CDs, DVDs
2 Suitcases of Clothing
Box of Miscellaneous Things like Shampoo
Assorted bedding

Not going back to school next week is really strange, not because of the routine as much as missing the feeling of instantaneous renewal. Fresh classes/shoes/pens. Even when I stopped getting new shoes and pens every year felt like something about to happen. People were happening, all around, coming and going and having a unified restart. By October, it would all be forgotten, new routines would emerge and scuffed shoes would end up soaked in early snowfall. Every year I would walk away knowing things had happened, that the September promise held up despite never delivering exactly what was planned.