Playing House

Playing Life.

My most overwhelmingly generous and kind friends Connie and Charlie have set me up in their duplex furnished apartment until the end of the month, two blocks from work, a cozy nest.

I placed my most treasured icons on the sill -- remnants from this life whose path has taken unexpected and zig-zagged switchbacks. Out of breath, this time. Gasping, too far above my accustomed personal sea level. Oxygen -- well, I could use a tank of it right about now. These altitudes contribute to a dizziness with every step, an inability to focus on the inexorable task of moving one foot in front of the other. It's all sludge. It's quicksand. It sucks. And it sucks.

While packing up today, I recall telling myself "now I am going to get some boxes so I can pack up the stuff in the bedroom" -- as I'd repeatedly attempted this task of box-fetching and failed. Speaking the words activated my brain, a direction, command to which I responded. My friend Robin commented on my organization as I labeled every box. Ha! My attempt at sanity included writing something -- anything -- on the top of each box. Funny, though, the categories kept shifting. What/where/who?

Distractions. A bit of my life here, a remnant of memory there, every step up and down recalling such sweet/now-bittersweet events, moments, dinners, the quiet holding that lovers indulge in, no words necessary.

And while I anticipated that my accumulated possessions would overfill the newly-vacated space in my Brandon Street house basement, there was space galore at the end, which felt good, cleansing, finally a clearing of all that I/we no longer need/want.

But blow upon blow: two of my paying renters have decided to give notice, young men that they are, not wanting (most understandingly) to live with a "mother". We roll and roll in these waves.
Yet it's a high and crushing surf.

And then there's scheming and more scheming: how to compound dollars to balance the crush, the deficit. I'm open to suggestions here. Rooms for rent!

But oh....the wreckage.
The rubble/flotsam/the-undoing.

I am undone.

I am pretending.

And a glass of white Rhone wine makes everything better.

xxoo