Wall of Windows

In San Francisco I had one blind that I raised and lowered every day. It was in the bedroom. There was a window in the living room, which opened on an air shaft and my neighbors could see in if they wanted to look but most of them kept their blinds pulled. I used to like to open the back door and watch people walking down Powell but if the door wasn't open there was no way for anyone to see into my apartment from the street.
One of the best things about the nest is the wall of windows. But I do live on a down town street. There are shops and restaurants and people walking by at all hours. The question of when I lower the blinds is a daily quandary. I like having them open but I am a bit on display. There's nothing to see really and most people are looking into shop windows. I am not not overly concerned. But the other night I stood up and it felt like I looked straight into the eyes of a woman eating on the patio across the street. She may have been looking at my plants or just the architecture. She may not have been looking at all. It just felt like I stood up into her view.
There is a transom-ish part of the window above which I leave the blinds lowered at all times. Nice that they work that way. I seem to have arrived at a system. The first blind I open in the morning is the one by the bookshelf and near where my desk will ultimately be. It's in a corner. There are plants in front of it. It feels obscured. The second one I open is at the other end. The table is there and I've eaten on it but lately I've been eating on the corner of my butcher block. When I was eating there I felt on display, somewhat. It wasn't a big deal but it was a little weird. In any case now I open it and if anyone looks up they may see me scrambling my eggs. Oh well. And last of all the middle, which is also a door with a Juliet balcony. I love opening it and looking up and down the street. But it is right in front of the hallway and I suppose if you were at just the right spot, at just the right moment you might see me walking from the bathroom to the bedroom in my towel. Probably not but I open it last. At night the pattern falls apart. I resist closing them at all.
Morning in Hood River is quiet. I live above a coffee shop so I see people clutching their cups on the street but not many. The day brings out the folks. Some seem like tourists. They travel in groups and look all around them. Others seem like locals. Walking dogs. Pushing strollers. As the evening arrives the restaurant patios fill up. I've been told the summer is busier and in the winter it will get really quiet.
Mom has the blind raising and lowering ritual firmly in place. It always seemed a bit hyper to me.
I like walking past someone's window and catching a glimpse of their life. Especially in the city. Not in any prurient or invasive way but just a glimpse of life.
There's a clear blue sky tonight. Not many people on the street but lots of cars. I think I'll wait until the street lights come on.

Nesting

There's really nothing good to say about moving. Everyone says it isn't fun but there was a level of un-fun-ness that seemed wrong. I'm not going to detail it because ... it's over and I want to be over it. I guess as long as I'm unpacking it's not really over but unpacking is almost fun. It's kind of like a raggedy Christmas in which you're opening packages filled with stuff you've had for a long time but you're glad to see it.
There was a moment, after the movers were gone and R was packing things into the car when I was alone in my apartment and I wept. I can still fill up with tears thinking about it.
We didn't get far that night but once we were on the road the next day it was fun. Driving across Northern California and then into Oregon is like driving through an endless post card. In the last leg of the trip, from Portland to Hood River, both of us exhausted and wanting to get out of the car, the beauty of the river and the waterfalls carried us.
And then I was in the nest. It was late. I was on the verge of a physical, emotional and mental breakdown. But I was in the nest and fully aware of the difference it would make in my life.
For so long I've felt like I didn't have any ground beneath me. No reserve. I was running on fumes. I wasn't running very well. Every hurt felt lethal. Every stress felt overwhelming. Many of my reactions felt disproportionate. Being in the nest feels like the ground has risen up under me. I still have bad moments but I recover from them.
The nest is perfect in ways I would not have imagined. I haven't fully integrated that I get to live here. This morning I had a complete melt down thinking that things were going to fall apart somehow. No reason. Just a random release of emotion. It happens every day and I suspect it will for awhile. But. I recovered.
I had set the cable/Internet appointment for two days after the movers but the movers were a day late so I wasn't really ready for the guy when he came. He was extremely fun and cool and just rolled with the chaos. Got my land line, cable and Internet set up. There's some confusion about my WiFi access and it wasn't coming from his company but he made a valiant effort and got it going. Something went off the rail and the next day, which happened to be my birthday, I couldn't get Internet on my IPhone. Whenever anyone talks about not liking Facebook I talk about my birthday. For the last few years Facebook has made my birthday fun. I post pictures of what I'm eating and people leave me happy birthday messages. So not having that access made me fairly miserable. I spent the day digging through boxes trying to find all the parts for my computer. It turned out that the WiFi was blocking the 3G. Not sure why since I've always had both on my phone. I had actually thought about that possibility and should have just turned it off but the guy had worked so hard to get it going. I was afraid to lose it. I still don't have the WiFi thing sorted.
Jane and Karen came over with a huge bunch of flowers, a wonderful cake and Chinese food. It was good.  
I pushed to get some things unpacked and in place. On Sunday Jane took me to the store. I'd been feeling like I might be getting a cold. That afternoon my intestines were acting up and I felt like crap. I got under a blanket and recovered. My entire system is a little out of whack so I do some work and then I rest. I have enough set up to feel like I can slow down.
I put a load of laundry in the machine and then go eat breakfast. It makes me happy. No stairs.
I go and get the mail. It makes me happy. No stairs.
I take out the garbage. I'm happy. No stairs.
So many things that are routine and not even fun make me happy because I CAN do it.
On either side of my television cabinet is a floor to ceiling window with a beautiful view. My eyes wander away from what ever show is on. I can watch the people on the street below. I can watch the trees on top of the hill. On one clear night I watched the moon rise.
I'm anxious for books on the shelf and no more boxes but I'm calmer in many ways than I have been in years. Maybe this will wear off. But. Not for awhile.

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.