If I go to sleep soon, will all the things turn out to be the good things? Will the holes in the knees and inner thighs of my pants heal? Will my rear bike tire become un-flat? Will I miraculously crawl towards summer without going totes cray?
I must qualify: things are good. I’m just feeling funny right now, and am spending the weekend wearing reindeer pajamas in the house in which I spent the first 18 years of my life. It is a good refuge from noise and routine and sadness and too many windows.
If I was a cat, I’d be sleeping in these tonight. I love re-purposing!
^^ that last one is a picture of Roy and I.
I will instead be sleeping in my childhood bed, with my bon fromage croissant frere dutifully resting on a camping mat on the adjacent floor. My room here is smaller, cold, and I think of the other rooms in which I’ve slept between this place and our current nest: an ivy-covered attic, a veritable closet by the river in England, a terrace overlooking a cheerful community garden in Brooklyn, the blue room in a house of many colors, a geodesic dome, the only finished bedroom in a partially-renovated house, a windowless room in a stale-aired crack loft, a little house on a hill by the sea at the bottom of everything, an apartment that let the trains in, and a shiny-floored shanty-town with no cooking gas and only heartache and residual angry phone calls.
These houses are a kaleidoscope of happenings, and (given my impressive record of moving constantly) I will add to this list many more times before I settle somewhere, quietly, with my bearded companion and a garden and a newspaper subscription and a cat. We will probably be about dead.