On relocation and recollection

And it is done. I have moved. Since I got to this city, I've always lived far from things. Closer to the ocean side, further from all the central activity. This generally suits me. My previous lodgings marked the shortest period of time I've spent in a place by far, staying there for only a few months before circumstances arose that forced/allowed me to up stakes. Thanks to a serendipitous collusion of events, my new appointments are in a house I have coveted since the World Cup, the place we would meet before games at 4am to bake and drink and generally carouse until it was time to eat Irish breakfast and holler about the Netherlands. Good times.

In any case, here is a picture of my desk taken from where I am sitting now-

This place is close to everything. Across the street from the Panhandle, a block away from an old familiar coffee shop. The neighborhood directly around me sleeps early, but I'm going to explore the post-11pm world a little further afield tonight on my forage.

After two days of arranging my room has taken on it's familiar wunderkammer state, with my artworks plastered all over everything, skulls skulking in the corners and books piled wherever they can be piled. This room being larger than a mouse hole, I am now on the prowl for even more crap to pile into it. High on the list are a rack of antlers, more books, two wingback chairs and some kind of table. I plan on doing some rearranging, but by the time I'm done with this goddam place it's going to look like a time machine threw up in here.

My mind has been outside of my control lately. I've been going through motions and my brain spins feverishly. Every time I think I've moved forward, I find something and realize I'm in the same spot. Work has nigh halted, but I suspect nothing short of a coma could put a stop to my stupid hands. Whenever I move I find hair from my dog. I don't know where this crap hides, but its still everywhere. This time I found a lot of detritus from better, more recent times. Painful memories, but most are these days. I keep a silent hope kindled that I know I should douse. But I won't. Dismal optimist, that's me. But I've run out of words. I've run out of ways to try to explain this to myself. Love is a peculiar thing. Right now, there isn't anything I wouldn't do to make everything turn out alright. But I know there is nothing I COULD do. Or rather, I don't know if there is anything I could do. If any movie from the 80s taught us anything, it's that things will work out if you stand outside someone's window with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel, but I don't even know where she lives. For the time being I'm resigned to sit by myself, hoping against hope that something shifts, recollecting nights passed and forcing myself not to turn to the bottle for solace. Time to bury my head in a book.