Apparently one of my new neighbors has an unprotected wireless network (“None of your preferred wireless networks are available. Whould you like to join the wireless network ‘lyinksys’?” — Oh, would I?) and so, in a new house and five days away from a network of my very own (because the Comcast service department sucks), I find myself organizing a new kitchen and cruising on pirated waters . . . so to speak.
“Will you miss it here?” Keeley asked me a few days ago.
“Not really,” I said. “I’ll miss the higher ceilings and the extra wall space for bookscases . . . but, really, I’ve moved so much in my life that I don’t get sad over leaving places. I get sad over leaving people.”
It feels more eloquent on the inside. I’ve probably lived in thirty-five different places. I’m very good at packing (it’s just like Tetris) and I’m very good at moving.
In fact, I kind of like it. Perhaps it’s a genetic thing. My people, after all, move. It’s what we do.
Looking around a cluttered living room (which isn’t quite livable yet) and thinking of my mother, who taught me that the first thing you do is sort out the sleeping arrangements (done and done and done) and then you handle the kitchen . . . because you can always take care of the rest, providing you can get a good night’s rest and eat something.
My mom has moved more than me. She knows what she’s talking about.
All right then, back to the kitchen.
(Incidentally, no. I did not have the occasion to write over the past few days. I am officially behind schedule. There’s a deadline approaching, yes . . . but I have tea cups to put away.)
(Hang on, I did write something. I wrote one line, this morning, thanks to the Writer’s Alamanac Podcast: “The boy learned to play.”
(Vincent just came downstairs, making pitiful little confused cat noises. He is not of my people, apparently. Chet, on the other hand, is taking all of this more or less in stride.)
(Oh, yes, the kitchen. Thanks for reminding me.)