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Apr. 14th, 2001 12:48 pmBefore, I was dusty. Now, I am clean. I like the shower.
Progress is slowly made as I pack. Perhaps I should have cleaned the whole house before I started putting things in boxes, but it is too late to turn back. I have boxed the letters, my comic books, all the little things on my shelf, the fragile momentos of my childhood, the vases packed between stuffed cows and dragons and blankets. I've discovered a sneaky yet simple way to move the hundreds of books. Grocery sacks. It's easier to carry, four bags of books at a time. The non-fiction has been sacked, but I'm still working my way through the long shelves of Tolstoy, Nabokov, Kundera, Moorcock, Wharton, Weldon, Maugham, Pelevin, Stewart, Stephenson, Heinlein, Gogol, Mallory, Hrabal and Jong. I have Burroughs in two sacks of his own that I can see on top of the shelf, staring accusingly at me. I don't think he likes it there.
I've started to worry. My hands shake all the time now, a permanent sort of tremor. It's not quite as bad as my grandfather's hands, but it is there. When I'm typing I ifnd myself correcting an oddly high number of transpositions and mistakes. My paranoid self begins to whisper "maybe the Parkinsons will get you early, maybe this time, it really is something and not just your out of control thoughts, something in your body is wrong..." And I'm scared. I know my family medical history by heart now, the litany of fear.
I think I should get out of this place for awhile. Need to go to the grocery store, since they will be closed tomorrow. Maybe I'll watch L.A. vs Detroit hockey for a few minutes.
I have a chocolate bunny in my fridge waiting for midnight.
Progress is slowly made as I pack. Perhaps I should have cleaned the whole house before I started putting things in boxes, but it is too late to turn back. I have boxed the letters, my comic books, all the little things on my shelf, the fragile momentos of my childhood, the vases packed between stuffed cows and dragons and blankets. I've discovered a sneaky yet simple way to move the hundreds of books. Grocery sacks. It's easier to carry, four bags of books at a time. The non-fiction has been sacked, but I'm still working my way through the long shelves of Tolstoy, Nabokov, Kundera, Moorcock, Wharton, Weldon, Maugham, Pelevin, Stewart, Stephenson, Heinlein, Gogol, Mallory, Hrabal and Jong. I have Burroughs in two sacks of his own that I can see on top of the shelf, staring accusingly at me. I don't think he likes it there.
I've started to worry. My hands shake all the time now, a permanent sort of tremor. It's not quite as bad as my grandfather's hands, but it is there. When I'm typing I ifnd myself correcting an oddly high number of transpositions and mistakes. My paranoid self begins to whisper "maybe the Parkinsons will get you early, maybe this time, it really is something and not just your out of control thoughts, something in your body is wrong..." And I'm scared. I know my family medical history by heart now, the litany of fear.
I think I should get out of this place for awhile. Need to go to the grocery store, since they will be closed tomorrow. Maybe I'll watch L.A. vs Detroit hockey for a few minutes.
I have a chocolate bunny in my fridge waiting for midnight.