The decision to flee came suddenly.

It is about time. The father has reached that point where no longer can I stand anything about existence. This is not meant to be as cruel as it sounds, but long periods of time with him do not agree and I do feel like a horrible, ungrateful leech of a son. No one appreciates the sacrifices he made as a single father more than I do. I truly doubt it even phases my brother.

Yet, enough is enough. The "where are you running off too? Sit a while, let's talk." Seems caring enough until the talk simply consists, "I got your grandfather some groceries. I still need to get him laundry detergent. I'll get that at Target," he says through cookies adding, "It's cheaper there." The proud moments of only eating half of the food on his plate, but then snacking for the rest of the night. This house is overflowing with candy, cookies, cakes, pies, etc. I tell him it is enough. Weakness. I truly am a kid in a candy store. He returns from stores with more candy, "It was half price."

You know what's cheaper than half price? Not buying it. Leave it on the shelf for the next American.

I went to a bar with people from high school. A kid who I was close with throughout which tapered off once college hit and then numerous kids from high school he is still friends with because, well, they went to the same college. No one has changed. Snide comments around, not meant to be snide, just stupidity. "You look the same" shouldn't sound so negative. Some graduate and have no direction, others graduate soon, with, somehow, less direction. Granted, mine is not great, but I have an inkling as to what I'm going to do.

Work on ads till May. Try to get a job, and research grad schools. Write. Write. Write. Read. I keep buying books and find more to add to my list. Langston Hughes, Thomas Lux, Dean Young, Joe Wenderoth, Joe Brainard. Just a few of the poetry books I want to absorb into my blood. Tear out the pages, place them on a spoon, heat, and plunge. Not to mention my desire to read Dante's Divine Comedy, Roald Dahl and Hemingway stories, and more. I don't think I have the energy to force myself into situations with the people here.

When home, I enter faux-romances. Repeatedly. Pursue something even though my heart is not at all in it. It is the equivalent to me craving zucchini. I don't like zucchini, but if it is available, meh, I'll try it again and again.

One more week. Push through for one more week. Onward. Then back to Syracuse where I can sit in my own place. Read. See people I enjoy. People who are more interesting, have opinions on more than just beer. People with something to say. Read. Enjoy the purity of snow. The fleeting snow. I love it.

My bamboo is dying. Spotty. Spotty and torn.

There is a bright spot in New Jersey. There is a bright spot every where. Through chance years ago. Never pursued till awkwardly from a distance. The distance will get in the way. I don't understand it.

My bamboo looks horrible.

Tilting different ways.

Part of me thinks it is filled with spiders. I've heard stories. Plants filled with spider eggs.

In the end, home is what it is. My goal is to make this the last extended stay. One of the reason I need to work so hard at advertising. Give me an escape in May. My aim is to go anywhere. NYC, Chicago, Philly, Boston, Miami, Richmond, El Segundo, Seattle, Salt Lake City...try me. Do my best where I land and see if writing and grad school is still the answer.

Catch Twenty-Two. Advertising gets in the way of writing and writing gets in the way of advertising, but I can't drop either. I've said it before. Damn you, Joseph Heller. God damn you, sir.