There is something to be said for purging, for pruning the friend tree, for cutting bait, for taking the money and running. There also is apparently something to be said for sucking it up, for shitting rather than getting off the pot, for taking the high road.

Having recently moved… again… I am certainly a paragon of the practice of getting gone when the going gets tough because, quite honestly, it’s keeps me sane. (Of course, sane is a subjective concept, but suffice to say that my constant state of flux keeps me from killing people.) Having recently moved… again… I have been granted the opportunity to jettison all the flotsam of a sedentary existence and drive off into the sunset with my clothes and my books. Of course, flotsam, too, is subjective, but I consider my ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s kitchen table to be replaceable and, in truth, rather objectionable. Having recently moved…again… I am afforded the perspective of a new address, a new view when I awake, and a new route to take to places like my favorite bar. Then again, perspective is subjective and really over-rated.

My last abode had a good run. It will have many tales to tell in the great real estate market in the sky when it, too, is called home to its builder. We called it "Kashmir," and it served us well as a refuge, a venue, and an excuse. Kashmir – a war zone, a classic song, a comfortable fabric. To thee the faithful will remain true and when the time comes to render homage to the castles and mansions of youth, Kashmir will rank among the highest echelons of domiciles. Kashmir was round. If there was nothing else to be said for it, its shape defined a year of my existence. Under its yurt-like roof, I babysat my roommate, I became addicted to BSG, I grew a powerful antipathy toward other people’s junk, and I learned the pleasures of a well-made davenport.

Now, however, I have gotten the hell out of Dodge. Now, I live in town where, instead of the chunk of a driver on the golf course down the hill, I hear busses motoring up the hill, and instead of watching the clouds roll in over Olomana, I stare right down the throat of the downtown streets of Honolulu. I have tossed all the old furniture, will maybe see the old Kailua crew if they come town side, will circumscribe my wanderings and the miles on my truck tires, and I will become horrifyingly adept at avoiding commitments that require me to drive to the country. I have run off to the city.

What stands in my way now is that the new address, the new view of the city, the treat of waking up to sip my coffee while staring into Punchbowl Crater are but a temporary boon. These all belong to someone else, and I’m supposed to be going even farther away, pruning the friend tree even more severely, taking no prisoners and running for my life.

After one solid weekend, I knew I wouldn’t really want to.

If everyone could live in a place like what I call "The Palace," world wars would cease, teenage pregnancy would drop, and the exploitation of the proletariat would become a thing of the much denigrated past. Not that The Palace is a leftist mountain retreat where we will all drink Kool-aid and hail a passing comet, but it does allow one to wake up in a better mood.

I am holding down the fort of The Palace as a solo effort. Wow. For the first time since 2002, I am living alone. I am enjoying the 270-degree sliding glass wall view all by myself. I am sipping my beer with my own thoughts and only have to share the space with people I bring home. I get to wander around in my birthday suit all day and all night, and no one can say snide word one about it. Oh, joy, oh, rapture, oh, fast growing idiosyncrasies!

So, even with its glaring advantages, The Palace’s sole entry in the debit column is that I do not get to keep it. I have to either leave it when I leave the island at the end of August or hand over the keys at Christmas-time when its rightful denizen returns from a stint in a war zone and reclaims her sanity. Bugger. Make no mistake, though, I shan’t jealously keep said haven of peace and point of view from someone who so blatantly deserves to have her place back.

I just wish I could find something (affordable) like it. Not bloody likely.