once more with feeling
The roses are blooming in front of my house, and the daphne and the hydrangea and the irises and the last of the lilac, and I am inside sorting through papers and preparing to pack. I am so fucking sick of moving.
I don’t know how many times I’ve moved in the past ten years but it’s more than a dozen; I lived in four apartments in Brooklyn and three houses in
Last summer exhausted my rootlessness, and I’ve had no time to recover. I just want to be somewhere. I want to have my glass jars of rice and almonds in the kitchen. I want to grow tomatoes. I want to find it worthwhile to meet my neighbors.
And where I want to be is here. There are grape vines already blooming, and I wanted to learn to make wine. I have a room painted green with three windows and an oddly shaped door. And for two weeks now I have been touring a hundred houses where I don’t want to live – houses with no porches and no gardens, houses where my books will live in boxes. And it sucks. And every time I think of it I feel like crying.
I’m sorry this has become such a bleak blog of late. I keep getting concerned calls and emails, and Kira sent me chocolates. And I know that moving might very well help me snap out of this ridiculous, pointless funk. And I promise that I’m fine. I just had this idea about
posted by tortaluga @ 1:13 AM
1 Comments:
Jennifer... we feel your pain. Little Max has lived in four places in his little 5-year-old life! At least you have found the city that suits you, and that's half the battle. The rest will fall into place.
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