Classical Movements
I am writing this post from within the small hollow I’ve created inside a mountain of moving boxes. After a more prolonged excavation, this area will look more like my home office, but for now it’s a cross between the Batcave and the warehouse at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Lots of boxes, no light, and crazy clown out there who wants to kill me.
I really need to play “Arkham Asylum.”
The last seven days have been a whirlwind. All of August, Becky and I have been looking for a new place to hang our hats, but we had no luck. Finally, at the last possible moment, we caught a break. We found it last monday, walked through on Tuesday, signed the papers Thursday, got the keys Saturday, and immediately began moving. It took five generous friends (who were rewarded with beer and pizza), one 17 ft. U-Haul truck (which was rewarded with gentle treatment), and six hous of mild pandemonium (which was my reward for not being completely packed) to transport all of our worldly possessions to our new gleaming castle of a home.
It’s not a castle in the sense that it’s a fortified position from where I can expand my dominion over the surrounding valley, but rather in the sense that it’s nice. It’s nice inside and out, and we even have nice neighbors. At the over-priced apartment complex we just fled, a greeting of “Hello” was usually met with a mumble and head-bob before the neighbor quickly darted into their home as though I’d been trying to figure out what size of cooking pot they would fit into.
Here, everyone we’ve seen has smiled, introduced themselves, and welcomed us to the building. What’s more, I’ve heard that if our upstairs neighbor intends to have a loud party, he either issues an invitation, or sends cupcakes as compensation. Cupcakes. It’s like the Stepford Neighbors.
The condo itself is so nice I feel like I’m staying at someone else’s home, and even the neighborhood pets are friendly. Any day now, I expect an elderly mustachioed gentleman in a white linen suit will knock on our door and ask if we’d like to join the rest of the community at the next black sabbath.
Only he wouldn’t call it that, he’d call it a “Renewal,” and promise free coffee and glazed doughnuts, so of course we’d go, and it wouldn’t be until after the social hour and icebreakers that the old guy would say, “Alright everyone, say hello to Jared, our virgin sacrifice,” and part of me would think, “Huh, I though only girls were made into virgin sacrifices,” but another part would say, “Dude, they’re gonna feed that poor guy to the snake demon, and we’ve gotta do something,” and WOW did I go off on a tangent.
Exhaustion and lack of sleep have turned me into a zombie assemblage of my former parts held together by caffeinated glue, and fueled by digital cable.
Soon, I’ll have unpacked enough boxes that I’ll be able to sit up straight in my desk again, and return to a normal sleeping pattern. I only hope that the Ark of the Covenant isn’t among the emergent clutter since I prefer my face unmelted.