It's the last one.

Well, for now.

***

I am feeling particularly wiggity-wack right now. If you're not in the mood for stuff like "The smell of cigarettes is pervasive. It surrounds me, it envelops me. Everybody smokes. Everything smokes. I can taste it around me and through me. I read my book while people smoke and laugh and talk and smoke. I reach for the dictionary, but this little dictionary doesn't define "anechoic. "" then I recommend you skip this one, and just go back and read "The Interview" instead. I liked that one.

It's looking, currently, like it might end up being like this the whole way through.

Just warning you.

***
Benson: Dude, I read your e-mails from England.
Dave: Oh yeah?
Benson: Yeah.
Dave: What'd you think?
Benson: I couldn't understand them.
Dave: ...
Benson: Any of them. Sometimes I thought you might be speaking French.
Dave: Rad.*
Benson: Nobody says rad anymore, you loser.*

*(these two lines are make-believe. just so you know)

***
La Mesa, California

I have no idea what's going on. In my mind it is still 1992. I am ten years old, I am at Lemon Avenue Elementary School. I am in La Mesa, California. The riots were just last year. The day they started we pushed our desks to the side and Mrs. Chung sat us all in a circle on the floor, and we talked about the world and I grew that day. The Persian Gulf war is recently over.

The more things / the more they stay etc. etc.

2004 is just too surreal, so I'm ignoring it. It is 1992. I can use the word "rad" freely, without fear of ridicule.

It is 1992! It is 1992! Denial is totally rad!

***
Pasadena, California.

There's this whole home thing. Am I home? Parts of this feel like home. Is it a semantic debate? Is New York home? Does it matter? You know, you know, you know. This sort of thing.

The same sort of thing I've been a-droppin' on you since the beginning. Since England.

Oh, right. England.

***
Jolly Old Whatever

I sat on the floor in the middle of Ariana's room. This is one night. This is every night. This is the middle of the night. The smell of cigarettes is pervasive. It surrounds me, it envelops me. Everybody smokes. Everything smokes. I can taste it around me and through me. I read my book while people smoke and laugh and talk and smoke. I reach for the dictionary, but this little dictionary doesn't define "anechoic." It doesn't have "ephebe" or "lissome" either. It does have "NBC" in it, which makes me wonder where the priorities lie these days.

I complain about sentence structure and improper word use. I challenge people on their syntax. Karen calls me a pedant. I think I should throw the little dictionary at her. But I don't. I just say "Your mom's a pedant" or something equally original.

Cha-click. Snapshot.

It's the National Broadcasting Corporation (formerly Company). In case, you know. Plus, Ari's going to be exceptionally happy that she finally got mentioned in an update. So double-whammy.

***
New York, New York

I don't even know what to say. Which makes for compelling reading. OK, moving on.

***
San Francisco, California

Same thing. But for different reasons.

***
New York, New York

I still don't know what to say. See how fun thinking about stuff too much can be? Let's take it again:

Screw it, let's jump around a bit; get all post-modern and reference some of the other updates.

***
Somewhere Over Greenland

I'm still there in

***
Possibly the Hungerford Footbridge

spirit if not

***
La Mesa, California

in time. Or place. Or uh... anyway.

***
NYNY

The reason I can't talk about it is that I miss it too much for words. The feel of it. The taste of it in body and the feel of it in my pores. The sensory overload. The streets and the sidewalks trees and people and buildings the high rise the apartments the smell surrounding me. The knowledge. The feel. Pervasive. Understanding and questioning. The lifestyle, the people. Everyone I miss. Too cold nights too hot days. Theatre. Any theatre. Doing some theatre for once in my life.

It's too much. I'm comin' back, baby.

***
2004

It is 26 hours into the New Year. I am done writing e-mail updates.

At least until I decide I have something really important to say again, or a clever new trick for ripping off some author.

It felt like it was time for some closure.

Here it is:

***
Wherever

Cha-click.

Goodnight.