The First Load

Or perhaps the second, the first load of my things that left the house were holiday ornaments and decorations that clearly won't be used here, and a few porch plants. But yet this load that left off this morning felt like the first. It contained relevance. Things I love. We're doing the move in bits and pieces so the final haul won't be overwhelming. That will be the furniture, of which I have little anymore. A bed, three dressers, my blending bench and mini fridge, the antique garden furniture, an antique hutch, the computer stand, and two rickety free standing wooden shelves. I'm going through everything in the studio with a fine-tooth comb, taking nothing that I know is not useful to formulation, or is not a part of a distinct collection of perfume ephemera. The rest? Well, to be sold, traded, or given away. I'm taking no linens, they go with the kid, less than half my kitchen stuff, no couch, dining table, chairs, recliner -- all with the kid. She got her own place in the old neighborhood, for which she's been pining these last two years. For all her efforts, she never fully became the 'Tower rat' she claimed to be all those years ago when I had my store down here.

Why is moving so dirty? I keep a clean house, yet going through things, tossing them in this box or that, it's dirty! There's dust on everything, and I just dusted. The person carting off my things this morning said, "Make sure the stuff you pack is clean," as if I'd intentionally sully the goods before packing to annoy him. People.

My biggest worry, however, is the condition I'm leaving this old house. It's just a worry and there's no basis for it. It's as gorgeous today as it was the day I moved in nearly two years ago. I suppose it's a reflection of how I feel toward the woman on the flying bicycle who takes my rent checks. She's just so condescending and negative, and I keep hearing the imagined critical narrative she'll spew during the final walk-through. I won't be here to witness it as I will be off in my other place, but I grit my teeth with the thought of it. Perhaps she'll refrain from speaking and pull a 'The Devil Wears Prada' move and simply purse her lips and flare her nostrils. Who knows? But you see how I torture myself.


I hope the recovery time from the move is brief so I can get started on creating again. I'm wanting to desperately now because I'm so stressed and the art pulls me out of that. I'm so desperate to 'do' something creative that I actually picked green olives on mom's farm and am brining them in a jar now. Not quite my normal stress release, but it's something.