I seem a little crazy and melodramatic in those bits of writing. I guess it’s overwhelming when you think about mortgages and contracts and chunks of your estimated lifespan. But now, when I’m moving things in 3 boxes at a time under the cover of darkness, the whole “ownership” concern fades away.
Taking its place are thoughts about moving, redoing my closets, getting a desk, remodeling the kitchen, remodeling the bathroom, painting (maybe taupe), muslin curtains, and bookshelves, bookshelves, bookshelves. It makes sense that now that the macro view is done, I have to start thinking about what happens “next week.”
Next week, I have to live there.
The thought of “living in my own house” conjures images of browsing used furniture stores, trips to houseware stores, and emergency runs to hardware stores. Of picking out flatware, selecting place settings for four, and finding the right carpet for the family room. Of fixing plumbing, grounding outlets, and replacing cabinets.
At first, I felt as if I was falling behind somehow, as if the place is supposed to be this fully furnished, magazine cover “contemporary living” space as soon as I put my key in the lock. But that’s a pipe dream, in the literal opium smoking sense of the word.
If I believed that, it would be no better than believing in airbrushed standards of beauty.
For now, it will be a place for me to sleep and sort out my boxes and boxes and boxes–of bricabrac.
So forgive me while I don’t have seating for you when you come over to watch “The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra” or all three volumes of “Invader Zim.” Your company is what’s going to make this place homey and comfortable while we sit on folding chairs and eat pizza off of paper plates.
And I think that’s just fine.