Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Yesterday, our hike kicked off with warning signs about rattlesnakes and mountain lions, and continued with deer and mountain lion tracks, actual deer, bluebirds or bluejays but in any case something blue, and quail.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
We've been doing a LOT of unpacking, and the apartment is starting to feel like a home, but this was one of the unpacking tasks that made me feel most accomplished and, well, HAPPY.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Be done with all twenty times you had to sign your name—twenty-four letters long—and be in the rental car coasting down the Redwood Highway, upset without knowing why. Be heading from the bright, dry sunshine of Santa Rosa back into the dense grey fog that creeps over the Marin Headlands and sits on the highway before you begin to understand. You have never signed anything more serious than a one-year apartment lease. You have never handed over so much money, ever. You should be popping champagne, but a manacle has caught you at the ankle and there is the tinny sound of dragging chains. Someone is clipping your wings, and that someone is your own self.
I live here now? You try it out, aloud.
I live here now, you say, thinking about living in NY, where you couldn’t afford to invest in anything and in this capricious moment it feels safer, easier, known. You suddenly miss the subway.
I live here, now. Breathe in, breathe out. I live. Here. Now.
* (From my writing group's prompt this morning: "What I really want to write about this morning is ___________." You might even replace the word "want" with "need.")
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
Nahe ate and pooped today. This may not seem newsworthy, but she’s been out of sorts since the movers came to pack us on Tuesday. Four days of “irregularity”—this is the most encompassing way to put it. That today she felt safe enough to do these most simple of things—eat, go to the bathroom—is a huge relief. We walked together through the borrowed labyrinth of our friends’ housing community, and Nahe wants to pee on every single blade of grass. She pulls in any and every direction, indiscriminate. Her ears ever perked, her eyes wide open, she looks up at me despite the bright glare of sunshine. She understands nothing but that wherever Dave and I are is home.