cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

this is the move that never ends

It really should have ended last Wednesday, when I picked up the last of my stuff from the house in Novato, and celebrated with some excellent navrattan korma from my favorite Indian restaurant. “Celebrated” is somewhat of a misnomer; I ate while staring blankly at the empty chair across from me. There was a family with children immediately to my left, and I wish there hadn’t been. The children were appallingly behaved, and the parents so indulgent as to be practically groupies, as opposed to role models.

For the record, a million times over: I am not a child-hater. But please, even if you think little Timmy and Susie are the brightest lights on the porch, the very sharpest knives in the drawer – keep them in line. They’re not so wonderful as to be above etiquette; no one is.

I know, I know: tell that to Dubya.

At any rate, this is the move that never ends, etc. I am still unpacking clothes. Why do I have this many clothes? They’re mostly all 5+ years old, which makes me wonder what I’m hanging onto.

(No, I don’t wonder. I don’t wonder at all.)

I am assembling three boxes of hand-me-downs to mail to similarly-sized acquaintances. This makes me feel good. They are going somewhere useful, perhaps to be enjoyed, or at least to be given to Goodwill by someone else. I also have managed to shove my two little cardboard drawer things up in the nook so that, draped with my assorted squid stuffies, they look rather charming. Or at least out of the way; who cares about charming?

Zen says “mwow!” She wants to be on the top shelf of the closet again.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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