Indefinitely tourist am I, couch-surfing between two cities, easy. Maybe I should acquire the habit of sending pinkie-thick stacks of postcards every week, no return address - or, better yet, the addresses of favorite restaurants, cafes and couches, the haunting grounds of the itinerant. Phantom or interloper, I can't take anything seriously. I could disappear tomorrow. More beers, eh? And picnics too, so please call me once I've paid my phone bill and the weather clears.

Apologies to my parents, who bite lips over their ne'er-do-well daughter. Whose son might, perhaps, be a ne'er-do-well as well; he would rather paint during day and work at 7-11 at night. One day, after all these days of hunger are done and buried, perhaps they might not worry. We lead rather charmed lives; our arts are well-chosen and we can be - when we aren't cranky - even charming.

...

Last night at Rini's house, her uncle (who has never read anything I have written) insisted, Phillina will become very famous, so it's okay that she's homeless now. Rini wondered, How come when I do something stupid, I'm stupid and how come when Phillina does it, she's an artist? I laughed.

...

Maybe 'cuz her future must be thoroughly planned. She is, after all, in med-school, grinding her teeth at night over the the names of genes, vagina cells, etc. That matter of bones and blood. Although Rini might cry over the pink-polished toenails of a cadaver awaiting dissection one hard autumn, she'll find herself in Mexico next summer, reading Carlos Fuentes between clinic tours. Like her father said last night, In medical school, you have to memorize all of Gray's Anatomy, which is this thick. In the mornings, after waking up and dabbing Egyptian musk behind her ears and toasting waffles for breakfast, she'll run out the door, for another hard day learning about bodies, our bodies, these bodies that bleed and decay and suffer all sorts of ailments depending upon environmental and hereditary factors. She will do this probably for the rest of her life.

...

And me, I'm always thinking about the present, because nothing has been planned. I tend to fall into situations; I'd rather indulge in whim, learning from each experience as luck unfolds it.

It - this ne'er-do-wellness - will end. Soon, I have to create balance. Discipline. Play acrobat, walking that fine line between despair and too much comfort.

...

If you wish to receive a postcard, e-mail me your address, 'kay?

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