The Saga Continues

When I was in India we would go to a hotel and ask how much things cost and there would be price quoted. Then we'd go to a room and there was no bed and when we asked for the bed there would be a charge. And then we'd ask for a sheet and there would be a charge. Movers are kind of like that. They do warn you about the cost maybe going up once they are there and that makes sense because you can't be 100% clear about what they'll be doing. But today there was a "stair" cost and a "shuttle truck" cost and kaching kaching kaching. The price may also go down once they're here. I asked for some help moving but I doubt they'll need to do much. BECAUSE I BEEN WORKING MY ASS OFF!!!
So I'll get that money back.
I think.
Saturday night, after shopping, after the boxes had arrived, I found it hard to relax. I stayed awake until 1:00 packing. Woke up at 7:00 and started again. Jeane arrived and we packed all 25 boxes.
Packing books isn't really hard. I have the same kind of frustration with the variety of sizes as I do when I'm shelving books. It's a bit like a game of Tetris. Jeane filled a few boxes with odds and ends but most of them were books. I still have some books left to pack.Maybe two more boxes. And some other stuff.
I feel relatively calm about the remaining packing but pretty stressed about the day of the move. There's just no way to be certain about anything. The movers "will do they can do to be there in the morning". The later they arrive the later we take off to drive to the nest.
There is a really cool photo group about North Beach. Perfect timing. I've spent so much time walking those streets. Eating and working in those restaurants. Drinking in those bars. Waiting at those bus stops. It's nice for me to look at those pictures.
I am waiting for more boxes. I paid extra for faster delivery. Even if no one else comes to help I'm in good enough shape to try and remain calm. I'm not calm but I am trying to pretend.
Onward.

Something Went Wrong

Thursday I was sitting around waiting for boxes. Trying to remain positive. Doing other things to move the whole moving project along. Wrote my silly little post. At 5 or 6 I called Lowes, they tracked the shipment and discovered it was picked up in South San Francisco at 3:30. OK. South San Francisco is about twenty minutes away. I held out hope for a late delivery but no. Now I have a FedEx tracking number and I see that they will be delivered the next day. I have a Chiropractic appointment, which I need but I decide to move to Monday because I don't want to be gone when the boxes arrive. I'm not happy but I feel like I can still make it work.
Friday morning I track the package and it's on the truck by 8:00 AM. I wait. And wait. At some point I check the Fed Ex site and the package has been taken back to the facility in South San Francisco with no attempt at delivery. WTF? I call and get customer service blahblahblah and am told someone from the local facility will call. They never do.
I'm not really up for what I need to do. I don't have strength, stamina, balance. And still I've been doing it. I've been packing and pushing boxes around and getting it done. But I have to stop and rest so often. And what if I need more boxes? I need to get things (mostly books) packed so that I can see if I have enough. It takes me time. The stress is building and the worst part is I feel so alone. The people I rely on are on vacation, or dealing with family emergencies. People have said they will come to help but aren't saying when. My apartment is torn up.  
This entire process has been troubled by system failures. The post office doesn't get things delivered even when extra money is paid. Bankers don't return emails. Just lots of things not going well and I feel so worn out. I get that moving is always stressful but when I was younger and more able I could deal with it all. I could work a little harder. I could shift and adapt. Now I operate in a narrow band. Things that go wrong narrow it even more.
I mean that's the things we all deal with isn't it? Something went wrong. It happens. We adapt. We deal. Maybe we rant out for a minute and then we recover and we deal. I just don't have an reserve. I don't recover quickly. I guess these are the problems of privilege. People are living in boxes and I'm freaked out because a delivery of them has been delayed. These boxes have been on a truck twenty minutes from my house for three days. It's maddening.
Saturday I get an email from Lowes saying my package has been delayed. Really? I check the FedEx web site and the boxes are on the truck by 7:30 AM. I wait. 10:30. 11:30. 12:30. 1:30. 2:30. 3:30. Debbie calls to take me to the store and just as we're discussing what to do since I can't leave my apartment the buzzer sounds. I push it and shout out the door but no answer. They have left the box full of boxes at the bottom of the stairs.
Yes.
That happened.
Debbie says she'll help me get it up the steps after we shop so I start out the door and run into a neighbor and his son. His son picks up the box like it's a  box of Kleenex and runs it up the steps. Phew.
A week from now the movers will be hauling stuff out of my apartment. The next day I will walk into the nest. I'm calling the condo the nest. Jennie noticed that I'm moving from Chestnut Street to Oak Street, which I had already noticed and found amusing. I'll be perched in my new tree. In my nest. And things will still go wrong. But for all the reasons I keep listing (no steps, washer and drier, friends close by) it feels like things will be easier. I'll be able to rebuild a reserve.
At least that's my hope.  
 

Summer of Jest

I'm sitting here waiting for more boxes to be delivered.
I have so much to do but I'm sitting here.
To be fair I have canceled PG&E, set up cable, changed some addresses. But I've been pacing myself everyday by combining that kind of thing with the more physical act of packing boxes. So today is just almost mellow except for the stress of looking around at all the things I need to be packing. I won't relax until the books are packed. Mostly because I need to know I have enough dang boxes.
I joined a Facebook group reading Infinite Jest. I've wanted to read it and I thought being part of a group might be useful. Maybe even fun. It's not exactly a book to read when your mind is spinning with lists of things to do but I jumped in.
I like DFW. I'd say I love him but I think he would find that odd. How can I love a guy I never met? It's not just about the writing. In fact the writing is a struggle for me. I recognize the skill. He makes me laugh. Out loud. He uses words that thrill me. But he is smarter than me by big numbers and I can't always retain the thread or the structure. I love him because he so totally lucid. Which is hard to experience and also know how he ended. Alas poor Yorick indeed. It seems a bit crazy to take on this book at this time but on the other hand I am so often awake and unable to sleep it kind of works.
So. I'm just sitting here.
I could be reading.
I just ate some yogurt with peaches and berries.
I just ate some triple cream on toast.
Too much dairy. My digestive system will be cranky soon.
Just refreshed Facebook.
Checked Twitter.
Listened to Caroline Casey.    
I've never been sure why but I always get UPS delivery at the end of the day. Just checked the email confirming my order. I don't want to stray too far from the buzzer in case they come.
Tried to take a nap in the chair beside the buzzer. Failed.
Finished a book that I'd already started before I started Infinite Jest.
Watched an episode of Maron.
I'm just sitting here. Waiting. For more. Boxes.

#movingisnotfun

Moving isn't fun but it isn't terrible. I've never really used Twitter much because I've never really understood it but these days I do have a desire to announce every mile stone. The hash tag just came to me. Once you accept the fact that no matter how carefully you pack, something will get broken and no mater how much you plan, something will be forgotten then you just take it one box at at time.
Some nights I can't get to sleep. Some night I get to sleep quickly but wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep. Or I wake up earlier than I want to and can't get back to sleep. Or some combination happens. My appetite is all over the place and I can't think clearly about cooking. I pack box after box and I look around and see how much more there is to pack. I haven't finished one whole room.  
I am a meaning making addict. I know this about my self and often try to adopt a (fill in the blank) is just a (fill in the blank) attitude but I can't stop. I keep thinking about what has happened and what could happen and I burst into tears a few times a day. I also get giddy with excitement a few times a day.
The first time I moved I was three months old. I moved two more times before I graduated from high school and in my young adult life I moved and moved and moved. Until I moved into this apartment. I've lived here for a third of my life. I keep saying that over and over. If I live until I'm eighty it will have been a quarter of my life and will I be in the condo for a quarter? I hope so. Because moving isn't that much fun.
I got a lot done today.
There's so much left to do.
And the clock is ticking.

Digging Out

I went through and tossed out about fifty pounds worth of old writing and assorted paper from college. Maybe more. One of the first classes I took was creative writing. I was in my mid-forties. It had been years since I'd written anything more than a journal entry. I sort of tried to write some memoir once. I wrote in large scrawl on a large drawing pad. I don't remember if I ever learned grammar but I certainly didn't remember any. It didn't mater much because The class was being taught by a poet of the Beat bend. First thought. Best thought. In my end of semester student review she wrote that I was an accomplished writer. I knew better than to own that. I think the word accomplished might reflect quantity as well as quality. Still, having just reread some of those one page splotches, I did do some pretty cool writing in that class. I was uninhibited by critique. The teacher could barely speak in full sentences. She was dear and eccentric and effusive but not at all interested in being corrective.
In one of the last classes of my BA in Humanities I wrote: It may be ontologically important for creative writing to strive to express itself in ways that are not decipherable.
Huh?
Oh. Well. See. It was in a paper titled: The Problem of Causality: Race, Gender and Class in American Narrative. It was also taught by a poet but a poet who could speak comfortably on many levels and complete complex sentences. She made lots of corrections of my grammar and suggested more perfect ways to say things. I took her praise a bit more to heart. I worked harder to earn it. Rereading it was interesting. I took on quite a lot in a relatively short paper and it was laden with other people's ideas. But I enjoyed the reading and writing I had to do in that class. I looked for a MA program in which I could continue and hone my grasp of theory. I didn't find one and maybe it's just as well.
This digging out of personal history is intense. I spent a whole day reading through things and reeling at what I'd been through and what I'd done and how long ago it was. It doesn't feel like it was that long ago. It never occurred to me that I would like college. And then I graduated and got a job playing a video game.
I mean.
What?
Heh.
Today I found another pile.
I wrote:There are ways in which all writing is an intersection at which a reader and a writer arrive. At an intersection people pause, wait to feel the other's intention. Who will go first? Who has the right? Who got there first? Will everyone obey the rules? How fast will anyone move and will that determine how fast the other can react? One false move and there is calamity, or maybe not calamity but an involvement. Hesitation is not a function of fear. It is a function of awareness.
It feels a bit disembodied but I've pulled it out of context. It was a short page on an Emily Dickinson poem. And thinking back to our class and the time it is fairly good thinking.
This digging out part of moving is reverie, some regret and filled with long forgotten selves. From which I am hoping to assemble what ever or who ever is about to be.
    
      

Moving

I like to say I have a view of Coit Tower. If you stand in the kitchen or the bedroom door and lean your head just the right amount you can see a small pie sliver of the top of Coit Tower. If you don't know what it is and you try to look in the day it might seem like some part of any old building. At night when it's lit up it's more obvious. On days when the Giants are playing big games it glows orange.
I love my apartment. From the minute I moved in I loved it. I've lived here longer than I've lived anywhere, ever. Almost twenty years. I love living in North Beach. I love living in San Francisco. It feels right. It feels congruous.
The downside of my apartment is the steps I need to climb to get in and out of it and get the mail, take out the trash, do the laundry. As my aches and pains have increased I've become a bit of a shut in. And when I do get out I can't walk very far. So I haven't been to my pool in a year.
So.
I'm moving to Hood River, Oregon. One of my oldest friends lives there. Another old friend lives in Portland. And I've met people there when visiting who I am looking forward to knowing better. It's a beautiful town and I'll be living in a beautiful condo. It's all quite amazing and I feel a sense of possibly that I haven't felt in years.

The minute I walk into the condo my life gets easier. There's an elevator. There's a washer and a drier in the bathroom. There's a coffee shop right below me.
I am somewhat worried about the rain since rain hurts my joints and sometimes gets to me emotionally. But I usually have my head in a book, or I'm locked into a screen. I lead an internal life. I also have a feeling that I might actually get out more. Oddly enough.
The Pacific North West is the only part of the country that I thought I'd live in that I have not lived in. In fact I imagined myself living there when I was older. So it also feels congruous.
For the moment I am overwhelmed by the packing and moving process. I am weepy when I think of the people and the life I am leaving. But it feels like the best thing that's happened to me in years.
A link to the condo is here but I'm not sure how long it will be live. A link to a condo above mine with the same layout is here.

Clothing

There's a clothing company that does something stupid every few years and then they get a lot of attention. Negative attention but attention none the less. The CEO said something stupid about not having large sizes because he only wants cool, beautiful people wearing his clothes and there are memes everywhere. More attention.
A factory collapses and garment workers die. It's happened before. It happens because we want cheap clothing and clothing makers want lots of money. The workers live and die in that breach.
I'm not terribly interested in clothing. Maybe I should say that I'm not interested in fashion. I like my clothing. I think I have a style, of sorts. I like natural fibers and clean lines. I generally prefer a loose fit. I like color. I do feel good in a new outfit, or a favorite outfit. But I don't feel like I need new clothes every season, or even every year.
For awhile I've wanted to write about my shirts but as a topic it never got me wound up. The news lately keeps triggering my thinking.
When I was a teenage hippie chick many of us wore thermal underwear shirts under overalls. Well. Actually. I never did because I could find them in my size but I always wanted them and then one day I found them in a Lame Giant catalog. Good colors and my size but always cotton poly blend. I made do.
From time to time I'd get a catalog from Big and Tall. I guess they figured if I was buying big clothing there must be a man in my life who also wore big clothes. One day I noticed thermal shirts on the cover and I looked inside.  They don't seem to be on the site right now but they were 100% cotton and ... they were cheaper.
I mean.
Why?
Why is men's clothing better quality and cheaper?
I bought a few before I went to NC, which turned out to be a mistake because Mom keeps the house at a balmy 75 all of the time. They're great in SF though. As the summer rolled around the catalogs came covered in short sleeved shirts. I bought a few. I love them. All of the shirts are a bit too big. I wasn't sure about the sizing. I still love them.
One day I remembered that I'd heard men's and women's shirts button in the opposite direction. I checked my new shirts against shirts I'd gotten from a women's catalog and yeah. Different. Again I wonder why. But also, if I walk up to you on the street and you're wearing a shirt not specific to your gender I will not notice. I am really quite obtuse about such things. And if someone looks at my shirt and notices ... oh well.
The tag says the shirts were made in India. Of course there's no detail about exactly where. It's unlikely I'll buy more any time soon. Not because I'm boycotting but I just don't buy clothes very often. But it's troubling.
There are small companies that make very nice clothes for fat people and I buy from them as often as I buy from anywhere. I feel like they produce locally but I'm not really sure about that.
And I find myself with not much more to say. I just wish I could buy a shirt, in a fabric and a color and size that I like and know with certainty that no one was living with misery and fear. Having recently read about the history of cotton it seems like it's never been true.