I started the process of sorting things and thinning down. My goal is to fill the storage unit with the bookcases and china cabinet so that the cardboard boxes of dishes are safe and accessible. Then to put in some wire shelves to keep it all off the floor. With the back end packed full and plastic boxes for everything else I should still be able to work out of the front end.
I seem to have a lot when it is all spread out. But when it is all packed in boxes it doesn't look that bad. I am beginning to have some guilt for having so much stuff. A lot of the guilt is because I bought things to make things for people and got wrapped up in other things and never made them. And now I have some anger swelling up because if things had gone according to my plans, without interference from people who don't know better than everyone else but act like it, then this wouldn't be an issue. I would have made those things. I wouldn't have so much stuff sitting static... waiting. I wouldn't be waiting for my life to start over again.
And that is the point. I am starting my life over again. I just commented to a friend that the disasporadic nature of my existence shouldn't be hard to deal with because I'm used to it. We were nomadic as kids in the Summer. Every day began by making lunch and packing the cooler, anticipating the kind of keep out of mom and dad's way activities that would keep us out of the way and spending the day on the farm. The only shade was a lean-to. We peed in the trees. There was a fresh bath to go home to at the end of a 12-13 hour day and a warm soft bed. But it was nomadic. Day in day out for five Summers in a row.
Having Jewish blood and all that genealogical memory encoded in me should make me used to it, shouldn't it? I mean, I can tap into my ancestor's past lives fairly easily with all of Grampa's stories. So I should also have some coping skills. But I am a soft squishy, almost a Denebian Slime Devil, American that expects life to travel a predictable path through the elusive galaxy "Success". So while I can cope, will cope and am not a stranger to this vagabond road show, I do in fact resent it. With every box I open I see pages of unwritten text in my head. With every choice to keep or pitch I see another artistic endeavor go up in flames.
Why, yes. I should be packing. I should be making those choices. I should also be at work because they are short of help today. Yet, I am too tempted to just leave everything but my art supplies and let my brother ruin the rest of my stuff like those last few pieces of my grandparents from last time. I am tempted to reduce my life to rubble rather than take another step down this boring and all too familiar road. So I guess you've figured out that it is best if I breathe, even if from a borrowed 'puter and a borrowed home. I've left my phone at home too. I just need a few hours without someone yammering at me...
other than this furry four-footed thing that thinks its a dog but looks rather much like a cat.
And that is the other problem with moving. I finally found the pictures I thought I lost last time. Right there, in all of her majestic glory is the second best cat that I ever had. This honkin' animal doesn't quite make up for Shadow being gone. He has a completely different personality. Think Churchill with an Emperor complex. Shadow was just calm, unassuming and only a bit intrusive when there are projects in your lap. She never wandered very far away from me when I was planting. And there is the other thing... the photos were of my garden. I did a phenomenal job. And Dad loved it. Now I get to work out of a storage unit and schlep a bunk where ever I can find one until I find something suitably semi-permanent. Home ownership isn't the safe bet everyone thinks it is right now so don't go there. It all screams "loser". The big L is the new scarlet letter.
I'm no more a loser than the people in the Dustbowl on the heels of the Great Depression. Things happen. We go along on our merry way and then one thing after another happens and knocks us down. The point is getting back up. It's just that the heights from which we fall make this so hard. the Universe isn't out to get me. G-d isn't throwing thunderbolts and lightening at me and laughing at my rain-pelted state. It just feels like it.
Funny, before I imposed myself on my neighbors, I dragged a friend of mine kicking and screaming out of his endless pit of despair. It's dark, damp and rather cramped... and for some odd reason I feel like sitting here for a while. It wasn't good enough for him but it is good enough for me? How stupid do I have to be?
Obviously this cat is Churchill incarnate... it isn't purring and totally lacks the empathy for which the species is known. Time to find one of the other ones. Max is a bit wild and would rather chase birds. But if he ran into the fox last night he might be more amenable to a cuddle on the back deck then I might have a chance. Don't know about the other one. They'd had it for 6 years but I've rarely seen it. Can't even remember what it's real name is. I just call him "Fraidy".