5.10.00

One of my favorite albums is James' Whiplash. It takes me many places, around the globe and in and through myself and beloved. This is what fills the stanza. I've just cleaned the room and there are no cluttery obstructions hindering little soundrings from floating up and over my head to rub down my body, which is also recently cleansed. Everything I ever owned is now with me. The moving truck arrived last week and I stood by to watch a middle-aged smoking man labor to unload my heavy wood furniture into a storage space. There were boxes and tables and a bed. I wanted to open up all the boxes to see what I own and to reacquaint myself with those missed things, but no time and no luxury for that kind of indulgence. I will have to wait until I have a place to unfold it all around me in my own apartment. That will be some undetermined date in the next few months, hopefully before the year is out. For now I've brought a few things back to the house, things that didn't fit in the locker. I cleaned to make room for them. And now I just want to stay in this room with James wailing from the computer and sitting in my own desk chair -- the one I can sit in for hours upon hours -- and not sleep. I am busier now. I am never home. I do not eat at home. I do not think I will need to buy groceries in this new life. The room will stay clean in its vacancy and my tidied things will keep each other company. But the bed will take me in each night, the lonely mother eagerly searching for an end to the loneliness in a selfish child.

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