We moved, sort of, last month. Sort of because we are not done moving, around half our things are at the other house, important things, like books I love that are first editions, or signed by their authors, or are strange and no one else has heard of that I worry I would never find again. The problem with moving is that we’re both broken. I am my usual broken (now with even more illnesses!!) and constantly using a walker so I can walk, or have a clean place to pass out. Dianne managed during the first days of our move to get scratched by a cat. That pounds normal, except the scratch turned septic, we went to the ER, they moved her to the hospital, and a week and 2 hand surgeries later she came home. Then she promptly fractured her foot, which means a boot like appliance for 3 weeks.
We’re too broken and too tired because of being broken to move, so there my books sit, in a half empty house with no water or electric, that we will likely lose our deposit on since neither of us can function enough to repaint the one room I did manage to paint a lovely shade of purple. In our new house boxes of build yourself furniture sit in the garage, waiting for us to finally make them into cabinets and animal kennels and a desk that I hope to someday do writing on. If nothing else it will look great next to all the shelves of books that will someday make their way here. Though it’s like having our home split in half, and our new home (thanks to the assholians* that rented the house before Dianne inherited it) needs so much work, I love it here. The air is often cooler and clean. When it rains it doesn’t feel tinged with exhaust. And I’ll take night air wafts of cow manure over the sickly acrid chemical smoke from the old method lab near our previous home any day. Our front mat doesn’t say welcome because I can hardly leave the house, and I only open the door for packages I ordered, but it halfway feels like home.
*assholians: people originating from Asshole, the giant anus all assholians are expelled from.