honeydunce

I missed my 10 year high school reunion tonight. Two reasons, mainly: I moved today, and had a poetry gig tonight. I’m not really bent out of shape about it. Ten years is a long time, a long time in a way which makes one feel obligated to be present…a long time in a way that keeps you where you are, away from before(as in before then which is, essentially before now. I can say I’m not super-curious about anyone in particular from my graduating class–on one hand, facebook takes the mystery out of question and wondering, and on the other–a lot of my friends were not in my grade to begin with. I see myself standing as an ostrich in some ways–I come from a small town, a place where being 28 and not being married or having kids translates to strange. That is, of course, a generalization. That is, of course, untrue. Where I live now, it is perfectly normal. Normal or otherwise, it doesn’t matter. My path isn’t stunted, or wrong, or just right. It’s a path, and it’s plenty fine. Still, before waking up this morning I had a dream–a dream about going to said reunion and seeing an old friend standing alone at a table in a tux, grinning to receive me as he flipped through a photo album which held pictures of old friends as they might be now. I’m amused with what the mind makes up, with what the mind does when it is faced with a thought left dwelling. So little dissipates, yet so much is gone. It seemed like the right way to attend, regardless.

I moved today. I’m currently sitting in my old place, now empty except for my cat(she will be transported tomorrow), a few mismatched things like this computer, some clothes, an umbrella, a plant, and bags of trash. The old bed, which I will drag down two flights of stairs and to the curb tomorrow(a comedic feat I’m sure, considering I can barely shove the box spring around). I will also discard of the trash bags, and gather my last things and forget to look back, as I’ve looked back enough. There is a part of me that is kind of sad about leaving this neighborhood–I’ve lived in and immediately around it for the past 8 years. Over the past week or so I’ve tried to make it more significant than it is, spent time on the porch staring at the street. The only time it really struck me was on a day walking back from the store with a few groceries–no storm clouds, early evening. I ran into a few familiar faces and slapped hands along the way, noticed people hugging hello and pooled around the tables outside the usual coffee shop. Yes it struck me then. Life is about movement and change, and I am a fool to deprive myself of these things for the sake of comfort or routine. I don’t want to be able to do everything with my eyes closed. I don’t want to feel my feet drop into the same groove I’ve worn into the street. From here to there to here again. It’s time to go, because something within requires I do so.

My new place is great. I’m giddy in every room, because every room is mine. So many windows and lots of sun, and a kitchen I can cook in–I see lots of evenings with the record player, pasta, and homework. I like what I see. This is what comforts me. Becoming friends with a reality that I have both hands in. It’s very hard to explain, but I’m pleased with the decision. That pleasure is what matters. I see this new place as a promise to myself–to treat myself better, to treat myself as well as I want and try to treat others. Sounds backwards, doesn’t it? The truth is I’m not used to it, and it’s time to become familiar. It’s never too late.

In other news, school starts on Monday, and I feel a new fever for the pen coming on, and it’s good. I thought about that a lot tonight, at the reading. Someone said something about words, about the time we have to use them. I felt ashamed for not dedicating more time to saying what I need to say, as in telling the story, as in speaking what cannot be spoken. Like spelling proclamations with lung fluid, like writing the lyrics to the song the elbows sing, like watching someone sleep, like walking a painting, like the way the sun hits the bricks at dust can bust your heart, like hands speak teeth. Telling it, telling it.