Movement

It was a hellish week, nearly a month ago. And Tuesday—of course it was a Tuesday—I spent first with my barely controlled contempt for everything, and with my ever-patient (but not burly) parents, hauling and dragging, from house to truck, from truck to house, for hours on end, every heavy and awkward thing in my world. Fuck mattresses. Fuck aaaaaaaall the mattresses.

When I finally took a break (broke), I lied down on the floor (for the couch was gone), too tired to cry, and contemplated setting fire to the remainder and having done with it. Because when the day was done—and it was far from done—there would still be another, and another, and another. And in a tunnel that long, my search for light often ends in brilliant explosions.

But then came the rally: Friends arrived, ate pizza, drank beer, played automobile Tetris with Rubbermaid containers and night stands. It was like the mumbling of an orchestra before the music starts—tuning and plucking, shuffling sheet music, setting up stands and chairs.

And then the baton raises for a moment of stillness. And then we were off.

The first movement: mosso. Literally, “moved.” Agitated. We were in and out of traffic, every car its own instrument, and no one in the same place, all over the place. But the chaos moved together toward a single destination—the driving rhythm, resolving, aligning, until finally we came together, a caravan alone on a two-lane road.

Movement No. 2: Allegro. It rained, and we danced. The unloading was an ant farm; no one stopped moving, just churning around, in and out, with such purpose and dexterity. Imagine the office in Brazil. It was beautiful.

And finally, rest. Well, rest amid stacks of boxes and piles of god-knows-what, but still: rest.

Curtain call.

That was how it got there. Here’s what it looks like now.

Built-in bookshelves (always a plus) and my late uncle’s Clavinova electric piano.

The sign above the door, “procured” from a trail head along the Blue Ridge Parkway, says “Foot Travel Only.”

I’m endlessly proud of the “spice rack.” I wandered Target for an hour and a half in search of spice rack inspiration and only found a lazy susan. I decided to take a chance on this assembly-required desktop cube shelf (of course I hadn’t measured anything; I never do) and it fit perfectly. Serendipitous spice rack.

I like to think this wall says nice things about me: a hockey stick, a Chagall poster, a framed Stoppard quote and a generic photo from TJ Maxx that might have mountains in it but I like to pretend it’s a shot of the intracoastal. (There’s also a birdfeeder that hangs outside the window, which doesn’t say a lot about me except that I’m clever with my birdfeeder placement.)

The street.

One end, a block and a half away.

The other end, two and a half blocks away.

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3 Comments

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3 responses to “Movement

  1. Love it… looks so freaking nice!

  2. “Serendipitous spice rack” is my new band name. And also: “fuck aaaaaaaall the mattresses” will now be in my daily vocabulary.

  3. Pingback: Fall on the Horizon | BananaHammer

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