Archive for July, 2014

The first books out of the boxes.

I haven’t yet tackled the stacks of book boxes up in my office. Not all the shelves are assembled and in their proper places just yet. We’re almost there, but not quite yet, so it’s better to leave those boxes where they sit.

But most of the boxes from the main living areas of the house are opened and unpacked, and what emerged from them are the books that were strewn around the house at the time the movers arrived. It’s an eclectic mix for sure, but a strangely comforting one at that. I’ve found everything from Little House to Diary of a Wimpy Kid, from Colorado and Utah tour books, to some old Dean Koontz, to Walden and Other Writings. These books have emerged from boxes labeled “kitchen misc” and “Living room” and “MBR: books and mice.”

As I unpacked these books, I simply placed them on tables in the rooms they’d been in, as if they’d never been disturbed, as if, in some other alternate universe, they’re still in Pennsylvania. Or maybe it was just the Universe’s way of knowing what books I’d need right away, because tucked in among them I found, of course, a small smattering of poetry books, including the latest from my teacher back home: Selected Poems, by Christopher Bursk. This morning, I opened up his book and found these lines:

…. Don’t
let go, you whisper. If I do
there’ll be no way
you can save me. My fingers hurt from grasping
yours. My body’s too great a weight
for anyone to lift. If it wants to fall
that badly, maybe
I ought to let it. I can’t
hold on forever, can I?
Yes, you whisper.
The word reaches down into the darkness
where I dangle.
Yes, you can. It is a command.

I can’t quite think about the fact that, come this January, I won’t be sitting down to another master workshop with this amazing poet and all my friends and fellow writers back east. But I can take some comfort in these lines, pretend for a little while that he was talking to me the whole time, that he looked into the future and saw me dangling here amid a confusion of boxes and half-assembled bookcases, and knew exactly what I needed to hear this morning.

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Coming up for air.

Well, we made it.

Sort of.

We’re down to one dog now, and the movers didn’t arrive with our stuff for an extra 8 days, which was no fun, and we didn’t get our Internet service up and running until yesterday afternoon. But we’re here, and I have a working kitchen, and the ability to type on a normal keyboard, and now that our crazy dog is no longer with us, I actually have time to write.

I suppose I should write it all out, what happened these past three weeks, because someday I’ll be sorry if I don’t. But it’s hard because I’m grieving. That damn dog was such a pain in the ass, but I loved him. Four years I worked with him, and all for what? One week into this move, we had to relinquish him to a shelter. Because instead of calming down here in this bigger house, he just got crazier. I’m 100% sure we did the right thing, but still.

I miss my dog.


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