pack, pause. pack, pause. reflect. clean. pack. pause...
I've changed so much inside these walls, funny how apartments (or houses or boats or tents or rooms or rooftops or wherever you call home) are these little coccoons. we morph and change, for the better or for the worse, we get more in touch with ourselves or we slip away from everything that's real.
I'm a fucking butterfly, man. really.
see, in the last abode, the house with the soon to be ex, I fell into the worst creative slumber I'd ever experienced. and it wasn't his fault, or because of the house, or anything like that, but it definitely was its own chapter of my existence. there was no KEXP, no ramblings in sharpie pen on the backs of receipts or in the margins of cookbooks, no dancing around naked and laughing. there was much walking in circles, banging my head against the wall, wondering why I felt the way I did, knowing I had to get out (of the relationship, and the house as well) and it being the most foreign feeling ever. the taking care of myself, I guess, which is the biggest difference between then and now, via the Golden Road of Being Painfully Honest With Myself. then, I was lining up yogurt containers and dishes through the glass so as to present the perfect facade. arranging the pictures on the top of the piano (that I never played) a hundred times. getting stuck staring out the front window onto the yard I didn't want, the garden I hated, the car that cost too much, the mailbox that held no promises.
I paced the driveway of that house one warm weekend morning, probably close to a year ago, towards the end of last summer. clutching the cordless phone and cracking into tiny, irreparable pieces. I don't know if I should have married him. walking down to that forsaken mailbox, warm pavement under my feet, so as not to let him hear. crying, scared, relieved, free, terrified. wandering back into the kitchen, avoiding his touch, avoiding his gaze. nothing. why does something have to be wrong? except it was all so wrong that it was tangible.
the solution for me then, the pulling of the trigger, was to have a one night stand with a friend, which rendered me a heathen and therefore solidified my exit. I couldn't stay there after doing to him what I hated him so much for doing to me. one day, a morning soon after the walk and the awkward sex on the floor with a man that was not my husband, I told him I couldn't do this anymore. he thought I was talking about getting up early on sundays or something of equally small importance. or maybe he didn't want to believe it because he had been here before with his last wife, just as his parents had sat, wondering what to do next. I blamed it on so many things, and the words fell out of my mouth and piled up on the floor and made no sense at all. I kicked them around and tripped over the infidelity, and we screamed and sobbed.
you know the rest of the story after that. a trip to seattle, the honesty in my notebooks, the evolving of my soul, the letters here at my fingertips. morning pages. lost looks out the window. sobbing, laughing, resistance, unfamiliarity, a sense of being home, acceptance with open arms. more sobbing. more lost windows. a year by the sea, which really wound up being just about seven months. victoria's emotional gestation period. complete with mix tapes and peanut butter and various forms of reckless abandon.
had I not landed here, I would have not had a friend for a landlord that let me pay month-to-month. I would have not grown upset with such pricey rent for my ocean views, I would have not sought out less (less really being more in this moment of the trip) and I would have not found the most perfect apartment in which to begin the next stage of my evolution. which is, by the way, currently swept and swiffered and lemon fresh with cleanliness, with plants on the windowsills.
so I sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by a list on the back of a bookmark, a wayward cd, my beach bag, and boxes. so many boxes, even though I've managed to rid myself of a lot of unimportant stuff. a truck waiting for me early in the morning tomorrow, the last load of laundry in the washer, and the note I've got to leave andy so that he knows I didn't bludgeon anybody to death in the bathroom - that it's merely splatters of hair dye that the bleach wouldn't fix. I'm ready for the next chapter, for tapestries and photographs and tea and homemade veggie sushi parties with myself. for naps with chacha and the rain on the rooftop and the stars in the summertime and the long city winter that will be looming ahead sooner than I think. for good books in the afternoon, and letters to the strangers I fall in love with taped to the walls. for christmas lights, jade plants and the perfect soundtrack.
always the perfect soundtrack.
let this then be the perfect opening line...