I’m moving things around. Still. Boxes, books, photos… God I was young then. Almost shimmering with unfaltering love.
I could pile everything in the garage and start all over again. But there isn’t enough time. I have a pile of new library books, 2 calligraphy books making their way through the mail and So You Think You Can Dance tomorrow night.
I take down a painting and hang something else in its place. Repeat a couple of times. My hands are a business.
After a while I’m left with a bunch of little holes in the wall. I spackle and touch up with paint. The cat bites at the phone cord until I chase her away.
It’s fresher now. I feel contentedly wired.
Later Sleep betrays me. I listen to “Weird Fishes Arpeggi” over and over. “Phantoms I follow to the edge of the earth. Everybody leaves if they get the chance.”
New Age wisdom would say this is symbolic – this patching and smoothing and feathering of the nest. Repairing my heart. Patching the holes , sanding the rough spots, refinishing.
New Age wisdom is bullshit and I’m no handyman. I hit repeat.