L. H. Puttgrass (legerdemain) wrote,
L. H. Puttgrass

Entre Chen et Loup

It's funny how I never keep track of looming endings unless there's a deadline attached. Tomorrow I'm flying out of LaGuardia to Camp, bidding farewell to Brooklyn, New York and New York. I filed a change of address at the post office, my tickets are bought, Yaron is subletting my place over the summer, I've spackled the holes I accidentally put in my walls, I've said most of the goodbyes I needed to say. In short, my affairs here will soon draw to a close. But it isn't real yet. I don't think it'll be real until I get picked up tomorrow night in Manchester NH by someone from camp, because I've done a little too much flying recently for hopping on a plane to be pregnant with meaning. Still, this is it. Goodbye teaching, goodbye New York. It's not you, it's me.

I've had three or four entries I've meant to post over the last month or so about the school year and my residence winding down, but they're gone now, off into the ether of thoughts not saved for posterity. While the facts of me being in a classroom are entirely comfortable to me now, even a loud and somewhat hostile one, it seems totally unreal that I've spent the last year teaching high school, education the youth of New York and drawing a steady paycheck (with pension plan!?). I guess I never intended for it to be a career, so dropping it seems fine, but where the hell am I going from here? The answer is Vermont, but who the hell knows what the specifics are beyond that. I have ideas, plenty of ideas, but life seems to happen in the space between ideas and what happens, between who you are today and your essential self.

I'm sorry Chicago, if there were a way to move to you and Vermont I would do it in a heartbeat. Vermont is the place I want to be, Chicago has the people I'd like to surround myself with, and in the end, at least right now, I want to move for the place, to be somewhere I'm excited to be. I moved to New York for people, and I don't regret it, but I never really got comfortable, never was able to let my guard down and just be. As I keep repeating, I want a yard, I want a pickup truck and I want a pooch, and so Vermont's winding roads are calling my name. Sara, Tom, Robyn, are you sure you don't want to move in the fall? We can get a big old house outside Burlington or White River Junction, something a little run down but beautiful. Robyn, you can get a job with a museum or a historical society, Sara and Tom, you can enroll at the Center for Cartoon Studies, because lord knows you could use another Masters. You'd have to learn how to drive, Sara, but I know your wrists could take it. We'd get a puppy to keep Pais company during the day.

So I'm off. If you want to reach me by phone, my cell phone is going to be out of commission for a while. I left my charger at home this past weekend, and my mom tried to mail it to camp, but may have mailed hers by accident. You can call camp at 802-333-3431; I'll be around evenings after 8:30 or so, but you can leave a message anytime. If you want to email me, please use the gmail account (bwbirdsall), because the Wesleyan one is getting reams of spam these days and I can manage that if I check it daily, but not if I check it weekly. I'll get it eventually if it's there, but not in any sort of timely manner. Finally, if you have any inclination do so, please send me a letter at
Ben Birdsall
2899 Lake Morey Rd.
Fairlee, Vt 05045

I promise I'll respond in kind, and I should still have some very nice paper on which to do so.

So goodbye for now. I'm off to go shoot rifles, build bonfires, swim in lakes, hike mountains, and generally reboot some parts of me that haven't spoken up in a while. I'll miss you, I'll be thinking of you, and I'll see you in September.
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