On my return to Seattle two weeks ago, I took a look around the apartment and decided things had to change. And I wasn’t just considering the dust The Poet let accumulate in the month I was gone. The piles of books on every horizontal surface; the bags, shoes and DVDs stored on the floor for lack of shelves; the futon/sofa with the broken slat, filthy cover and futon itself perennially slumped halfway down the frame; my medical supplies sprawled across the dining table. And lastly, the kitchen table, which has turned into a sort of desk for the Poet. (seen in the picture.) This is how far things can go when you don't reign them in.
Because at last I have the energy to do something about these things, at last I’ve reached the crisis point when I just can’t take it anymore.
So, between medical appointments, I’ve spent two weeks running around to places like Storables, and considering whether I can afford a new sofa that is non-toxic (the answer is no, absolutely not) or whether I should put the effort into fixing what I’ve got (yes, because it's all I can afford).
Is this getting on with my life? I’m really not sure. So far, the apartment doesn’t look all that different. It’s going to take a few more weeks plus a trip to IKEA before I have the transformation I really want, and I'm not sure I'll ever get The Poet to do anything about the piles of books in the kitchen corner.
Meanwhile I am not writing, not the blog, not anything. I miss it, and I feel my brain is succumbing to a vapid, all-encompassing preoccupation with consumer choices. I am telling myself this is a necessary step before writing. I am thirty six years old and my apartment compares unfavorably with a rodent’s nest. When things are respectable I’ll start to write again.
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