Rooted to the place that you spring from.
And so I am.
Henshaw, I’ve been remiss. I could tell you I’ve been busy. I could tell you I’ve been working like a squirrel among the oak leaves on my thesis, that I’ve been singing and playing music with my friends, that I’ve been packing for another great, big move, that I’ve been feverishly sick abed and then lashed with bouts of insomnia during which I still didn’t write—
And all this would be true, but it’s no excuse.
I really wanted to write you about the insomnia, about its varied forms: the fitful thrashing caused by the codeine-containing cough remedy, the dry-throatedness caused by radiator heat in an old house, the perfect midnight alertness caused by oversleep during day during sickness, all this and the usual, caused by hamsterwheelbrain. This all seemed interesting for a moment, then it didn’t.
I wanted to write you about how much I’ve come to love my Beachtown friends, and how sad I’ve grown that a good life must be broken apart, in order to move forward. And then that started to sound eerily familiar, and my own sister told me, “This is a pattern with you,” and then I got embarrassed about it and just wrote nothing.
So now I’m in Atlanta again. I’ve moved back, and in with Marshall, my sweet, sweet b’friend and now I'm sitting at my computer, listening to Lois Reitzes talk all sultrily about Camille San Saens. We have a house with a porch and two cats who haven’t met yet. Dangercat’s residing in the bedroom for now, suspicious and pacing. Marshall’s cat, Enoch, a 16-pound cumulonimbus cloud of a cat, saunters lopsidedly by the bedroom door, but seems not to notice the foreign male cat smell—- or, I posit, does not care. He wobbles up and meows for his meals and for affection. He rests on the couch. Such is the life of Enoch.
On the way down here, I listened to friends’ mixed cds and got all choked up and teary, and then resolute. And, lo and behold, it’s good to be back. Atlanta is a city of wretched planning and sprawl; it is also the city whose street map is blueprinted in my mind when I close my eyes. The roller coaster of 75/85’s Grady curve, Mayor Franklin’s metal street plates (pothole resolution of the future!), the layout of the enormous produce section at the Dekalb County Farmer’s Market, where we went on a shopping spree yesterday along with half the city, these are the landmarks that somehow comfort me.
Marshall and I, we’re having a blast rearranging the house. My little corner of the office is cozy, and yesterday, as we schlepped his mint-green kitchen table down to the basement, I realized the potential there: “Craft center! Craft center!” I started chanting. A forest of mod podge and fabric and paper. Ah, yes. It shall be.
And I’m re-learning Atlanta. It’s been just two-and-a-half years, and this house is in a familiar neighborhood, but there are all these nifty back road shortcuts to friends’ houses and to unfamiliar Publixes, and these require routes with which I’m wholly unfamiliar. I’d like to announce with pride to my fellow Atlanta denizens out there: I’ve been here 48 hours, and have not once driven on Moreland Avenue, the nightmare main drag that this neighborhood surrounds.
I’m going to see how long I can keep this up, in our current frenzy of thrift store furniture shopping and eating at a different friend or family member’s house each night. Tonight we go to my sister’s house, to see my nieces and the first floor of their house, whose every inch, square and spare, the girls have apparently swathed beyond recognition in Christmas decoration.
I’m still nervous, but it’s good to be back, Henshaw, to finish out my final semester from afar and ease myself back in to the Big World. I’m excited to share a life and a home with Marshall; in some ways, I’ve become the person I never thought I would, and it’s funny to see that in these pages: I am in love with and living with a a technical writer--which, as a profession, is about half-a-click away from the computer programmers I whined about when I was 26, and we are fixing up a house in a neighborhood in which, yes, we are the lightest-complected people around. And if the two of us did have a dog and if there were a dogpark, and if we had salaries that would allow for some real home improvements, I would totally be one of the home improvement chatters. Well, to an extent. Then I guess I still would get bored. I'd rather talk crafts. Or music. I guess some things don't change. At any rate, life is good and we are all lucky people. I miss you Carolina folk this much (that's a lot), and I’ll write again soon.
And so I am.
Henshaw, I’ve been remiss. I could tell you I’ve been busy. I could tell you I’ve been working like a squirrel among the oak leaves on my thesis, that I’ve been singing and playing music with my friends, that I’ve been packing for another great, big move, that I’ve been feverishly sick abed and then lashed with bouts of insomnia during which I still didn’t write—
And all this would be true, but it’s no excuse.
I really wanted to write you about the insomnia, about its varied forms: the fitful thrashing caused by the codeine-containing cough remedy, the dry-throatedness caused by radiator heat in an old house, the perfect midnight alertness caused by oversleep during day during sickness, all this and the usual, caused by hamsterwheelbrain. This all seemed interesting for a moment, then it didn’t.
I wanted to write you about how much I’ve come to love my Beachtown friends, and how sad I’ve grown that a good life must be broken apart, in order to move forward. And then that started to sound eerily familiar, and my own sister told me, “This is a pattern with you,” and then I got embarrassed about it and just wrote nothing.
So now I’m in Atlanta again. I’ve moved back, and in with Marshall, my sweet, sweet b’friend and now I'm sitting at my computer, listening to Lois Reitzes talk all sultrily about Camille San Saens. We have a house with a porch and two cats who haven’t met yet. Dangercat’s residing in the bedroom for now, suspicious and pacing. Marshall’s cat, Enoch, a 16-pound cumulonimbus cloud of a cat, saunters lopsidedly by the bedroom door, but seems not to notice the foreign male cat smell—- or, I posit, does not care. He wobbles up and meows for his meals and for affection. He rests on the couch. Such is the life of Enoch.
On the way down here, I listened to friends’ mixed cds and got all choked up and teary, and then resolute. And, lo and behold, it’s good to be back. Atlanta is a city of wretched planning and sprawl; it is also the city whose street map is blueprinted in my mind when I close my eyes. The roller coaster of 75/85’s Grady curve, Mayor Franklin’s metal street plates (pothole resolution of the future!), the layout of the enormous produce section at the Dekalb County Farmer’s Market, where we went on a shopping spree yesterday along with half the city, these are the landmarks that somehow comfort me.
Marshall and I, we’re having a blast rearranging the house. My little corner of the office is cozy, and yesterday, as we schlepped his mint-green kitchen table down to the basement, I realized the potential there: “Craft center! Craft center!” I started chanting. A forest of mod podge and fabric and paper. Ah, yes. It shall be.
And I’m re-learning Atlanta. It’s been just two-and-a-half years, and this house is in a familiar neighborhood, but there are all these nifty back road shortcuts to friends’ houses and to unfamiliar Publixes, and these require routes with which I’m wholly unfamiliar. I’d like to announce with pride to my fellow Atlanta denizens out there: I’ve been here 48 hours, and have not once driven on Moreland Avenue, the nightmare main drag that this neighborhood surrounds.
I’m going to see how long I can keep this up, in our current frenzy of thrift store furniture shopping and eating at a different friend or family member’s house each night. Tonight we go to my sister’s house, to see my nieces and the first floor of their house, whose every inch, square and spare, the girls have apparently swathed beyond recognition in Christmas decoration.
I’m still nervous, but it’s good to be back, Henshaw, to finish out my final semester from afar and ease myself back in to the Big World. I’m excited to share a life and a home with Marshall; in some ways, I’ve become the person I never thought I would, and it’s funny to see that in these pages: I am in love with and living with a a technical writer--which, as a profession, is about half-a-click away from the computer programmers I whined about when I was 26, and we are fixing up a house in a neighborhood in which, yes, we are the lightest-complected people around. And if the two of us did have a dog and if there were a dogpark, and if we had salaries that would allow for some real home improvements, I would totally be one of the home improvement chatters. Well, to an extent. Then I guess I still would get bored. I'd rather talk crafts. Or music. I guess some things don't change. At any rate, life is good and we are all lucky people. I miss you Carolina folk this much (that's a lot), and I’ll write again soon.
posted by Alice at 11:14 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home