I almost feel spiritual when the weight of coincidence seems to really slam one side of a seesaw down real fucking hard. You know, the kind of coincidences that just smack you in the face and leave you wondering whether shit is, in fact, random.

Even though my to do list is jam-packed with thousands of agenda items, I went with one of these guys to this theater to see this man. I figured it was a chance to see a Boston legend talk about the country in a way that I’ve enjoyed since I heard him during the first Gulf War and the first Bush presidency. A fitting goodbye to the area and hello to all of the states I’ll be crossing.

Afterwards, we went across the street to the local BBQ joint, and that’s where the heavily weird cosmic thing punched me. A chick comes up to me with a voice that was familiar, but I couldn’t place and asks if I am me and then introduces herself. Patty was the third roommate, who I had written somewhere here about, I think, because this guy appeared across the Internet and reminded me.

Once upon a time, at least a decade and a half ago, eeksypeeksy, this woman and I shared a rent-controlled apartment and each in our own way lived through the bullshit travails one must in the years of early adult independent living.

Sex and drugs and rock and roll and beer and cigarettes and poetry and music and bullshit and drama and bullshit drama.

The fucked up coincidence part is what feels essentially like an invocation. As part of cleaning up old pictures, saying goodbye to old friends, assessing my Cambridge life and all Patty was on my mind. Moreso, because she and I once jumped into a car with the intent of driving across country. (Back before we were roommates; back when we were young enough to just fucking do it with only enough preparation to save money and prolong the trip.)

We made it as far as a hot and sticky August New Orleans with a swampy oppressiveness rising off the Missippi and the heat of my shitty Renault Alliance mostly stuck in the on position.

That trip has been in my thoughts, and it inspires me to believe that the new trip, essentially moments away, is possible. Then, we had no money, a shitty car, foolish recklessness and no reason to go other than pure adventure. Now, it should go more smoothly.

I have a little bit of jingle in my change purse (at least enough to mean I will not cold-water camp or camp at all as we did then). My car is much nicer and everything works, and waiting for me on the other side is a potentially great fucking beginning to a potentially kickass life change. And, need I mention, 41 is just so fucking hugely different than 25 or whatever the hell age I was.

Literally within days, I had just told the story of Patty’s and my driving adventure to my buddy who I was hanging with tonight. And, as we ate barbecue, one of the story’s characters walked right up to us.

Awesome and completely weird.

Oh, and as a coda to the synchronicity, as I began this entry I mentioned I saw Barry Crimmins. Well, among the things that hits me whenever I see him perform is his rocking an anti-war rally during Bush Senior’s Gulf War.

I saw that performance with a guy who I had just met, and the heavy political talking had me imagining the start of some kind of wonderful, sympatico thing. So, I brought him around to some sort of socializing thang with the intent of building our bonds and doing up some kind of dating. Within a record brief period of time, he was gone from the scene. Gone, but not before sharing a little something something beyond the deep political rhetoric we shared with my wild, ripping hot, punked out, sex machine roommate. Patty.

Full fucking circle, baby, in 15 years.