My old apartment didn’t get flies: I used to say they knew it wasn’t big enough for them. This apartment has a tendency toward a buzzing, so I need to buy a fruit bowl with a lid or a net.
My old apartment was a thimble with a magic wardrobe. My new place is a rainbow, and my bedroom is the start of it. The kitchen and main room yawn into each other, a long lolling tongue of space.
The move here has been no easier than it is to turn a thimble upside down and pour out every color the light can hold.
Let’s start with the things I’ve lost recently:
- Access to my old email address
- Access to the new account for two weeks
- Three plain white t-shirts
- A microfiber towel I use to clean my desk
- My doctor (retired)
- My neurotherapist (passed away)
- A small blue dinosaur toy from a plastic quarter machine
- Proximity to my bodega of choice
- Waking up to a feeling of strain/fear
- The ability to eat toast without being sick
- An unreasonable amount of money into deposits and living necessities, honestly, how does anyone afford moving?
Some of these things must be packed away together, somewhere. Some of them are gone for good.
Some things I have found:
- A cow-print bedsheet
- A renewed love for this piece I wrote about the patience people do or do not have for a life such as mine
- Bedtime peace
- A truce with my PTSD-fueled fear of permanent things, or things that seem permanent
- Several recipes I have always meant to try
I’ve been going so quickly, it’s hard to keep track. I missed a few things in all that bustle.
- “Ra’s Re-birthday”, the celebration of my 6th year home from prison
- Rarasaur blog’s 9th birthday
- The Gnome Home’s anniversary
I have made many lists. What does one need to start again? You’d think I’d be an expert but every time this happens, my brain goes numb.
When you lose access to your email address, the first and most responsible step is to email anyone you can, or reach out them to another way, to let them know where you’ve gone. I know this but I’ve stalled. I’ve sent seven emails from the new account, and if you weren’t one of the seven, please don’t be hurt: Mamasaur still doesn’t have the right information either.
But my lists get smaller, somehow.
Some items have been on a list so long that they’re fossilizing into my bones. A hundred years after my death, if my family forgets to ash me into raincloud, someone will find my bones and read upon them:
She meant to.
She meant to what, they’ll ask, but they’ll never solve it because the answer is everything. She meant to do everything but only got so far as researching a fruit bowl with a lid.
2 of ?