Packed and Poised

So here I am, surrounded by the 70 carton boxes that contain most of my worldly possessions, but I made sure I'd still be able to sit on my couch and watch TV tonight, take a bubble bath, and sleep in my own bed.

Tomorrow, thankfully, I do not have to go in for jury service. So I can sleep in, direct the movers, and start unpacking.

Stay tuned.

Now Comes the Move

My pre-move organization is now complete; packing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and the move for the day after that. Then I have the weekend to unpack enough to get by with.

I've informed the post office, my bank, the phone and cable companies, and my housekeeper of the move, and will have many other address changes to achieve. The worst part, I expect, will be looking at my old place once it is all in boxes and then when it is empty. And next worst will probably be looking at my new place all in boxes and then finding all my stuff, finding homes for it, and getting used to conducting my life in the new spaces.

I'll try to focus on the improvements - no stairs to climb, a quiet bedroom in the back of the house, and the ability to retire once the place is fullly rented.

That being said, "My mind's distracted and diffused," and I'm seriously decision-impaired. Normal enough, I suppose. And it should eventually pass.

Excelsior!

End of Decluttering in Sight

So my pack strap broke last week, motivating me to clean it out with the help of my organizer and move what was left into a temporary pack while I got it repaired. I'm back in the old pack now, but it's nearly five pounds lighter - which is good for both its structural integrity and my own.

That helped get me in the frame of mind to tackle the books, and we went through about half of my library. I was able to part with nearly half of the books I looked at - now all the shelves that I've done are a single layer thick, no longer double-shelved. I was on quite the roll, and we quit only because we ran out of boxes to put the discards into.

So we figure on three more sessions, the rest of the books, my music, and the kitchen. Then I move downstairs at the end of next month - having finally been approved for a new loan and struck a deal with Jim's estate. Then I spiffy up my old place and get it rented out, and then I retire. Hot darn!

Long Time No Write

So, I haven't written a new post for a few weeks, since I've been so busy posting the old writings that I've been turning up in my decluttering efforts. Which, incidentally, are getting down to brass tacks - books and music. Considering each of the 2000 or so books that I own to determine which ones I'm willing to part with is something I've been putting off as long as possible. It would be simpler to go by categories, e.g., Christian books out, Jewish books in. But there are some Christian books that I couldn't part with, and some Jewish books that I'll never get around to reading. And how could I part with all my science fiction, or children's literature, or ...?

My books are the friends, talismans, security blankets, and source of stability about which I've written so often; how can I bear to part with a single one of them? I must try to console myself with the thought that others will be able to share their benefits if I let them go out into the world. But it's hard.

Yet Another Old Writing

Probably also from the mid-1980's:

I cannot cry unless I expressly give myself permission. When I feel a lump in my throat, I must choose whether or not to cry. Sometimes I give myself permission to cry, and sometimes I don't. Usually the times I deny myself tears are reasonable postponements. If I'm singing at the funeral of a relative, for example, I can't cry and sing at the same time, so the tears get postponed.

But often there's no real reason why I shouldn't cry, and yet the tears hover unshed in my throat until I give them permission to come, and sometimes they don't even come then. It seems to me that my difficulty in crying has to do with my father. He and I argued a lot when I was in my early teens. I would get so angry and frustrated at his stubborn wrong-headedness that I would begin to cry. Then he would tell me to stop crying, saying that I was using tears as a way to manipulate him.

So I learned to control my tears. Not in the way he meant, to turn them on at will, but to be able to withhold them until the coast was clear and I could cry in private. To this day I cannot cry until after I have decided that it is safe for my tears to come out, and maybe not even then.

More Mothertongue Writings

You name it, I've been it. My Catholic mother had me baptized as an infant. Then I lived with my Jewish grandparents and went to Sunday School at a Reform synagogue. Then I lived with my atheist father. In college, I was converted to Christianity by Campus Crusade for Christ. Later I studied and worshipped with Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship. Meanwhile, I had joined a Presbyterian church because I loved the music that a professor of mine had recruited me to sing with their choir.
After moving to a new city, I joined a Lutheran church because it was near my home. After a few years, I began going to a Catholic charismatic prayer meeting with some charismatic Lutheran friends. Then I discovered the gay synagogue in town and started going there. The non-sexist liturgy charmed me, as well as the gay and lesbian congregation. So, I stopped going to the Lutheran Church, and joined the synagogue. Then I got involved in a twelve-step program, which has its own form of spirituality. Along the way I also attended a Quaker meeting, spent a weekend at a Moonie camp, and learned Transcendental Meditation.
What do I actually believe? Whatever is working for me right now.
_____________

My Favorite Things

Two-headed dildoes and long peacock feathers,
Butt plugs and fur mitts and shiny black leathers,
Garters and stockings and gold nipple rings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Shiny ben wa balls and edible lotions,
Sturdy vibrator for long-lasting motions,
Honey dust powder and butt beads on strings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the mood strikes,
When my blood burns,
When I'm feeling gay,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I have got to play.
_______________

Used to be, they thought women were sick if we wanted sex. No they think we're sick if we don't.
________________

I've tried non-monogamy, and I've learned my lesson. My problem is not moral, ethical, or religious: I just don't have that much energy.

A Poem from my Santa Monica Years

I can share this with you because I still have, and recently rediscovered, the mimeographed literary magazine in which it was published during my high school years:

Fog, all around me,
sheltering me
from my world that was
torn asunder.
When will the sun shine again?

I can't see
through the fog,
Nor do I want to see
my world that was.
I look forward
to sunshine.

Upon what
will the sun shine?
What will I see
when it rises again?
What?

What new road
lies ahead,
shrouded now
by fog
which will
soon be revealed?