Doesn't that sound ominous? But today is the first day where this apartment is my only apartment. I have officially dropped off my keys. My old and much loved apartment is gone - in the hands of some man I can almost guarantee will not love it as much as I did. Mostly I feel okay about it. I'm learning to live with it (or without it, as the case may be) but oh, I have such pangs.

Rachel is the only one who knows this, but I used to come home every day and pat the same spot on the living room door frame and say "hello" to the place as if it was a person. When I was sad and thought things would never feel better, I would keep telling myself, "But I still have this apartment." And it gave me enormous comfort to know I had a place I loved waiting for me at the end of the day. I know it's stupid, but I always had the feeling the place loved me back.

There wasn't an inch of it I didn't know - the messed up paint in the cabinet under the sink, the loose bit of baseboard that hadn't been right since the firemen kicked in the door to get to the broken pipes. Certain boards on the deck always came loose in winter had to be hammered back in every spring. I rigged up the closet shelf with twine to keep it from collapsing in the middle and kept a dime in the bathroom to tighten the medicine cabinet screws. They were completely stripped and loosened every third time I opened the door. Sometimes it would happen just as I was leaving the room. It would suddenly come away - just at the top - leaving it hanging at a broken-necked angle from the bottom hinges. The thunking sound it made scared the crap out of me every time. 

I had just moved in when I had to let go of my little dog. It's the apartment I lived in with my ex - and without him - and the place I came back to after mom's funeral. I recovered there after my hernia operation, and lived unemployed for a whole amazing, horrible year. I got my very first cat there and, a year and a half later, gave him a name.

But it was also freezing. The towels wouldn't dry in the unheated bathroom and once I even saw my breath. And the landlord was crazy and his disregard for his tenants had been making me sad every day for a couple of years. And I fell in love and got engaged and it was just too small for both of us. And I just. Couldn't. Stay.

I know this and I keep telling myself.
But it was the very first home I ever had that felt like it was all mine - so I will have to cry for it and that's just how it is.

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My parents were both born in the 1930s. They were pretty old fashioned (at least compared to the kids-of-hippies in my peer group). They had set ideas about clothes and manners, and they were very strict about pets. The animals in our care were never confused with "family" and, even if they weren't terribly useful (we had a few horses and a succession of very unlucky dogs) they always always stayed outside.

I remember growing up knowing kids whose dogs slept on their beds and I read endless stories about little girls with cats. I knew Lady and the Tramp by heart. I would lie in bed at night, slightly terrified at the creaking and groaning of our old farmhouse. I'd think about how much safer I would feel with a warm, shaggy dog at my back or a feline purr to drown out things that bumped in the night. I thought my parents were very mean and unreasonable and I knew that the second I grew up I would have all kinds of indoor beasties.

And that is when I learned real pets, no matter how sweet their dispositions, are almost never as accommodating as the ones in books. 

So how shocked was I when, two nights ago, my absurd and portly cat Meatball crawled into bed next to me? I was half asleep when I felt him curl himself up just below my shoulder. I rolled over and put my arm around him, assuming he'd stay for a moment and then squirm away. Instead, the little strange-ling began to purr like a motor. He stretched his paw out and put it on my hand as though he meant to pull it closer. Then he buried his nose into my palm and went to sleep. For an hour. I know this because I was so shocked that I stayed awake the whole time.

And all I kept thinking was that, in some other dimension, the five year old me was finally totally vindicated.
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The only thing left in the old place is a mattress, a rocking chair, and a handful of things in the fridge. I'll take care of the last two today (C has promised to deal with the first). And then I will have finally, absolutely moved.

The new place is still a mess. The living room is filled with boxes, things we're not sure about. A mannequin makes a lot of sense in a fashion magazine editor's apartment office. Does it make sense here? And how can we have so many tables between us? And why are they all so nice? The bedroom is still a wreck, too. Our beautiful antique iron bed frame is in the mudroom (the bolts are rusted and stripped) and our mattress is on the floor. We have nowhere near enough storage, so half my things remain in garbage bags on the closet floor. (It's a sad little recess to start with, but to have to share the thing is nearly intolerable.) 

But the kitchen is more or less finished. And the den, where I sit now, is comfortable enough. It keeps me from going insane in the chaos. 

I'm totally exhausted. My sister told me there was some study (isn't there always?) that said the stress of moving was only matched by the stress of losing a loved one. Though I've more or less accepted I live here now, I still have great moments of panic. Whenever anything goes wrong I think, "Do I have to pack again?" And I start wondering how long I can put off unpacking what's left, just in case. 

What I have decided is that while things are more or less out in the open (and since there is a charity shop just across the way), I will continue to try and purge my belongings. I have a lot of lovely things - but the "lot" is clearly too much.

At least for now.
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Very interesting development.

After we discovered that the Landfamily (I have no idea what to call these people) enjoyed doing their laundry at 6 AM, we sent them a very nice email. We told them we'd prefer if they ran the machine a little later, as as I do most of my writing in the early hours and the noise is quite distracting. The thing is, though, while I always used this time to read or research or edit, now I feel compelled to actually write. Even when I have nothing to write about.

Like today.

But what can I do? I feel like they've made an effort - using only the dryer (which is far less annoying) in the early hours and saving their wash until more reasonable times. Now, to not make a liar of myself, I must churn out reams of trash (and, hopefully, small quantities of decent prose) daily.

Ground floor living; I should have thought it through.

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illustration by Camila do Rosario (detail)

Another fast internet morning. Which is good, since I'm in a rush. I still haven't really finished moving out of my old apartment, that great dusty albatross.

There isn't much left, but just enough to make it an effort. Mostly it's things I don't know what to do with - my bed (I have to get rid of it) and a small, vintage desk that I adore but for which we have no space. Most of my fancy shoes are still there (I've been wearing combat boots nonstop for at least six weeks). And then there are a handful of dishes my sister used when she came to stay and a mirror I have to get off the back of the closet door - a couple of baskets of bathroom shizz. You see? Nothing square or modular or easy to pack - and mostly stuff I could live without. If the apartment burned down today I wouldn't really miss any of it.

Well, except that mirror. It's exceptionally flattering.

In any case, instead of using yesterday's made-up holiday (Family Day? Seriously?) to get things done, I spent the whole day arranging my new den. Now, instead of being able to sit here and enjoy it, I have to haul ass over to Yesteryear and take care of stuff that should have - and certainly could have - been done weeks ago.

Because I am the King of Procrastinators.
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illustration by George Barbier

Ironically, this old plaster-and-steam-heat apartment is propelling me into the future.

After two weeks of no phone and only being online at work, I am once again connected to the rest of the world. It's a mixed blessing, I guess (insofar as one could consider a paid utility a "blessing"). On the one hand, it's very lovely to be able to start my day blogging and emailing (it's always seemed so decadent, somehow) but there was a certain relief that came with being unable to stay in touch. It felt like a release from obligation. Oh, did you leave a message? I couldn't pick it up; my phone hasn't been connected yet! Morning's were filled with unpacking or planning. Sometimes I finished painting; sometimes I just sat still and listened to the house humming. But here I am again, tip-tap-typing. The radio is on - weather, news. The predominant hum is in my head.

It's just before 7:30 and I can hear someone above my head starting to wake. Soon an enormous, goofy dog will come loping down the stairs and straight to our door, snuffling and snarfing. The cat will lower himself onto his haunches and stare very hard at the gap under the door. (He is more curious than anything.) Then whatever silence this morning has afforded me will vanish like a mist. The people with whom we share this house - from whom we rent our little space - are very kind and very loud.

Their kids leave boots and shoes all over the common hallway and shout to each other outside our apartment door. The washer and dryer - access to which ought to be an utter delight - sound like jet engines in the nook adjacent to our den. (Their owners, who I can only imagine can't hear them at all, like to do laundry between 6 and 8 AM.) God love them.

And it doesn't help that I've been living in an eyrie for the last eight years. I can hardly remember what it's like to have anything above my head heavier than a raccoon. (They were considerate enough to do their laundry elsewhere.)

I have decided to try and view it as a lesson in patience. (Naturally, my forbearance will translate to virtue.) Every time I can grin at the sound of rushing water and crashing buttons and zippers, every time I can tune out a personal conversation or admonishment that someone has 15 minutes to get up and get to school, I will praise my own good grace and stroke my vanity.

Could there be a better incentive than that?
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So this was something annoying.

I was at work this morning and went to use the washroom closest to my office (it’s a “single” so only one person can get in there at a time). I heard someone in the hall ask where was the washroom, and someone  else directed her to the one I was in. She tried the door and said, “It’s locked.”

“Someone must be in there,” another voice replied. Because (and please, tell me if I'm out of line) that is the logical conclusion one draws from a locked bathroom door.

But 30 seconds later I hear someone trying to open the door with a master key.

Is this what we're doing now? When we encounter a locked washroom door are we just going to assume it must have been locked in error and we ought to try and open it immediately? And at what point does this extend to other doors - confessionals, small businesses, homes, cars?

Hm, this door seems curiously locked. I prefer to be inside and yet I am outside. Since inside is where I want to be, I am surely entitled to enter. HERE, LET ME JUST GET MY HATCHET.

Come on, people.
USE YOUR HEADS.

I was watching Never Let Me Go at the shop today. I generally avoid Keira Knightley. I find her annoying. Today I realized it's because she plays the characters I'm afraid I am in real life. She always seems like such a weak thing, such a petty thing.

Well, except in Domino. I wouldn't be too awful to be that.

Someone came into the shop with a lit cigarette, just for a second. It makes my mouth water. I haven't smoked in weeks.

And my internet still isn't up in the new apartment. The lack of distraction is exhausting.
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I just finished watching Catfish. It's a documentary about a guy who, through Facebook, meets a young artist and her family, eventually leading to an online romance with her older sister. His brother and friend document the relationship, including phonecalls and texts, and gifts sent through the mail. It doesn't take long for the subject and his filmographers to realize things aren't what they seem.

I was watching this movie while I was working (I have a part-time "high school dream job" at a little indie video store) and one of our customers recognized it on the screen. "Is this Catfish?" he asked. "It's so creepy." While I can see why he'd say that, I disagree. Completely. I think this may be one of the saddest films I've ever seen. I would even go out on a limb and call it profoundly sad - mostly because I don't know if the filmmakers realize how very heartbreaking it is.

This movie absolutely captures the isolation of our "connected" age and the desperation it breeds. A part of me understands that I'm watching this through priveleged eyes (emotionally, intellectually - not because I am better or more, but because I have been lucky enough to live a life that encourages me to be introspective and self aware). I realize that some of my empathy is just costumed condescension. But I am part of this age, too, and I know these feelings - even if I know better than to act on them. I recognize the regret of wasted and lost time.

This movie is a cautionary tale, maybe. Or it is what it is - a documentary.
It just documents more than the people in it.

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image by Alberto Seveso

Though I've been reveling in my recent tumblr affairs, they're far too public. I've been quite open, sharing them with family and friends; it's best to mind my manners when it comes to content there. Not that anything here is terribly shocking or revealing (and I'm hardly the type to bare all on the world wide web), but this place affords a little anonymity. Whether I need it or not, there are days when that feeling is absolutely essential. 

I remember years ago, when I was in university, I spent even more time alone than I do now. (It hardly seems possible.) It wasn't extraordinary to go a day or more without speaking to a single soul. Every once in a while, in a perverse fit of misanthropy, I would test my will to silence. No matter where I went or what I had to do, I would refuse to speak. A smile for a cashier, a nod to a professor - I don't know that anyone even noticed. But the thing was, I noticed. Though I felt that I loathed to speak with people, I actively avoided contact, the moment I cracked the sound just spilled out of me. Once over the shock of the sound of my voice, I couldn't get the words out fast enough. 

Now my silences are shorter, more specific. They are designed to keep distance between what I perceive as my Real Self and others. That internal me is a chattering squirrel and a bit of a spaz; too eager, too earnest, too emotional. I build up a confident, quiet persona, a levee to keep my straining, muddy, destructive rush of self at bay. People relate to that person, not to me (and honesty is no temptation with people who believe the lie). Keeping my mouth shut is just easier, safer. I don't trust my impulses to have a finishing point - not food or fear or desire. When the levee breaks, I have no place to stay.

But that crap does tend to build up. That's why I keep coming back here - so I can propel my excess out into the ether before I'm tempted to flood them out into my life.

Wait - what was I going to talk about today?
I don't even remember.
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