I have been absent, and I am exhaustedly back.

I just moved, yesterday, from a place I had lived since 2001.  I kept track of when I moved into that apartment by recalling Sept. 11  It didn’t happen on moving day, but it happened not long after, and the happiness I lived in my cozy one-bedroom always seemed a strange juxtaposition to–or perhaps a wilful retreat from–the lack of sense in the world around me after we became a nation at war.

I’m not going to try to make much sense this morning.  I don’t have much time to, and I’m simply too tired.  I spent all weekend packing, carrying, and taping, and I ache all over.   Work is busier (though more fulfilling) than it has been in years, and I just moved from an apartment where I lived on my own for the better part of a decade to a enormous historic house in the suburbs filled with life.  I’ve moved in with friends (hi Greenwoman!  Yep, me too!) because these are hard times and because I have had enough of trying to be a tub on my own bottom.  (Besides, at this point I have come to enjoy the idea of sharing my bottom, too.)

I am now living amongst a rather improbable collection of adults, children, animals, and vehicles of transport–one car per adult, plus baby carriers, cat carriers, strollers, doll strollers, sleds, toy carts, toy trains, toy trucks, and several (miniature) Star Wars gunships.  Meanwhile, Robbie is buried in snow and financial paperwork, a cloud of white entirely tiring on its own.  We call each other at 1opm and murmur quietly, partly to keep from waking babies at my new abode, and partly because we are too tired to do much more than murmur.

My libido has attempted to make an appearance since New Year’s, but really, it barely even gets an A for effort.  I don’t blame it; there is far too much going on. We still haven’t entirely given up the dream of a home of our own, though; picture-perfect and ideal, but with a pervert-black picket fence instead of the white one.  That’s our kind of domestic felicity.


Black picket fence by Alice Mayer.