novembre

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say that you remember

The new house was built after the great fire, so in reality it's older than dirt. So is our landlord, an ancient cowboy-hatted attorney who shuffles instead of walking. He loves pretty girls and he inadvertently frowns during conversation if I am visibly unkempt.

Oh but I love wandering around bedheaded.

He lives next door. He likes to give me tours of his house: a full bar, a collection of dusty cowboy hats lined up on the couches in the living room. His house, like ours, has amazing wallpaper. There are velvet cutouts.

The Friday before I moved, I rode a friend's bicycle twenty feet before it bucked me like a wild horse. There are braces on my right arm, wrist, my left knee. Smoking on the front porch, Morgan joked: "We ordered an Elka and they sent us a broken one! No fair!"
Or something along those lines. In this house people spontaneously cook together, and nobody minds when I suddenly blurt out Earth Wind and Fire lyrics, which reminds me of living with Layla. There are no snobs here. There are geeks and lovers. There are new handshakes and nicknames. I am the oldest. I am old and new at the same time. My cat hides in closets, the cavernous attic, but is slowly adapting to this new noise. He skitters up and down the stairs, exploring after most of us have gone to bed. To think, I clean the kitchen, fitting my pots and pans in. Unpacking, unpacking. I am unearthing earrings I thought I lost, fliers from when Joel used to DJ. Books, records, boots. Perhaps all my possessions are books, records, boots.

Here, I am writing. Unpacking, reading, books everywhere. Very comfortable chairs. Trinkets and records and Cassie's mom stops in from Colorado. I am itching to finish settling in so I can take up drawing again, short stories.

Read Lynda Barry's new book: What it is. You will inadvertently learn not to critique your situation as you live it, just to let it ride. Same with the basic artistic process, something I forgot and replaced with overwhelming worry on accident. Say that you remember. Bah-dee-ahh. Imperfectly and happily.
There are lots of things I want to tell you but I am not on my own computer, and it is hard to write with a gimp brace on my right wrist. Back to unpacking.

10:35 am - 1.19.09

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