Look for me here, because this is where I am.

I pulled over early this morning across the street from the house in Pennsburg and just l0oked resentfully (at the idea of John) and sadly (at “my” porch) for a few moments before driving on.  My potted rural mailbox is still on the porch, and the three upstairs windows — two to my bedroom, one to the hall — gaped blankly at me like the tired eyes of . . . I don’t know — an old stone house.  I wish I’d taken better care of it, and of myself.  I know I was grateful; I never took it for granted that I know of.  I loved my big kitchen, my porch on Main Street, even the stairs I found it so hard to manage.  I loved those deep windowsills.  I loved the mantlepieces.

I’ve been at Rest And Be Thankful for just over six months now.  I need to remember why I am here, and remind myself how I got here and what promises I made to myself and God.

This is where I am.

I need to write the stories of these two places, how I had seen and loved them both long before I lived in them, what I called the old house when driving by, how I looked toward the cottages here and imagined living in one.

Sometimes in a meeting an alcoholic will say, “This is where I am today.”  This follows or is followed by an assessment of the speaker’s spiritual or emotional condition.  For me the phrase refers to this apartment — the porch, the big-enough kitchen, the lovingly-maintained (by Harley) and comfortable living room, the thumpy upstairs neighbors who’ve been so good to me, the dogs that bark all around, the magnetized closet doors, the smallness that’s still more than I need.  Upper Perk is gone like yesterday and I have no idea what the future with Dan holds.

Published in: on August 9, 2011 at 2:18 am  Leave a Comment  

Not Much Activity

It’s not that I haven’t been online.  I have beeen.  All day, every day.  Obsessing and compulsing, and no time for anything as creative as posting in a blog.

I have been on a jag, a bender, an emotional Weirdness Trip.  The days these weeks have run into and over each other.  I have spurts of activity, but not productive activity; my desk and kitchen table are covered with disorganized piles of paper, and I am writing lists and thoughts in no less than five notebooks, not in any order, not remembering which one the different entries are in.

To do this weekend, without fail:

  • fax my lease to Peco — find it first
  • put every piece of loose paper in a file, and, where possible, consolidate them with the already-extant files in the three drawers and three or four boxes
  • decide what to do about the van — include Dan and Harley in this  (Dan is supposed to visit thhis weekend, and Har might, might, be home; I will believe it whan I see it.)

Which is another strangeness!  Harley has been gone, living for several weeks at the Yocums’ house because it’s closer to his work and he can get rides with his coworker Joe.  I hang out alone, wander from room to room to rest my Internet arm, pet the cats, watch the Boys from eleven to midnight (Mon-Thur), neglect all my manuscripts, eat food that’s bad for me, and go to two or three meetings a week — the last being the only healthy part.  Oh, and I imagine telling off Bruce Konviser, but I’m not going to; I’m going to love him.

It sucks not to have a job.  But I could make the whole situation easier, and I don’t.

Published in: on August 5, 2011 at 3:24 pm  Leave a Comment