About two years ago we moved into this love palace. I remember what I was thinking when the photo below was taken, and mostly what I was thinking was “oh, shit.” There were too many rooms. There were too many pieces of furniture, but also not enough. Whose sheets would we use? Would I ever be able to consume a pint of ice cream in a sitting now that there was someone around to disapprove? And what if I accidentally, you know, got fed up with him and killed him in his sleep? In that case, should I give in and put his sheets on the bed?
Several hedgehogs, some nuns, Robert Herrick, a haunting and a few stalks later, we are still not dead in our sleep (on his goddamn flannel sheets). In fact, I’m happy here. It worries me. I look around my lovely living room and I think “oh, shit.” Am I supposed to be this settled while still in my twenties? Should we move to Paris? Should we give away some of this stuff? What if he accidentally, you know, gets fed up with me and stops paying for all my BART tickets?
In a letter to KTV some years ago, I said “When there’s nowhere different to go, have the sense to stay put.” Good advice, me. So here we are, here we are, here we are, and I am trying to mind but somehow I just cannot.