Once when I was living in Maryland, I was driving at 11 pm down a road with a very confusing intersection. There were three different roads all crossing at one spot at odd angles that would have made H.P. Lovecraft horny for the old ones. This meant that there there a tangle of traffic lights.
I was tired, it was night, and I ran a red light because I thought the road I was travelling down had a green light.
If you’ve ever lived in Maryland, you know the struggle is real.
On Facebook, there is this man who went to the same school as I did – and before I go on, this has to be said: the high school I went to was terrible. It was an extreme-right parochial Christian school aimed to stamp out people cookie-cutter-like and seed them into the world so as to cover the planet in brambles and nightshade. And I should say here: #NotAllChristians. I’m specifically talking about the horror show I was raised in.
Amanda Mininger discusses coming back to writing after a long delay in this wonderful blog post. This is something that is universal for those of us who love slinging words together. I myself took a nearly year long break for one reason or another and the factory has only just started up again.
Read the post, but don’t just read the post. Savor the whole thing. This person can write!
Okay, the move is complete, the packages unpacked, the boxes unboxed, the prisoners released, the wires wired, the birds de-catsed, the rabbit imprisoned, and the last rabid dog ambling down the street has been shot by Atticus.
Now that the move is completely complete and the massive stack of boxes are hidden in the garage to make a new abode for the Brown Recluse Spiders, I can get back to typing. Whether that is good or bad is completely dependent on how you feel about what has happened so far.
In the meantime, moving is painful but cathartic. We take the same view as NASA concerning freight – there is a certain cost per pound. We are stingy with that cost because, like the beginning of the show “Fame,” we are paying in sweat. The question we ask ourselves is “do I want to carry THAT up three flights of stairs?” Very often, the answer is “um, no.”
Yet however much we shed, we seem to have too many things when we unpack. Was the Buddha right? Are our possessions merely contributing to our sense of unhappiness? Are they weighing us down? Is our desire for things leading to frustration at our inability to get said things?
Or was the Buddha a very poor person who had no stuff and it was all just a case of sour grapes?
Anyway, we still have too much stuff. As Maria Bamford said, we’re not rich, but we have a lot of shit that we’re not willing to share.
There are still fiddly-bits and odds and sods that are still piled up in ways that my wife hates, but we’re carving a home out of this mess. We’ve already had two dinner parties and a babysitter visit!
In the meantime, here is the view from outside my office.