Sunday, April 10, 2011

April 10th

The pleasures of moving are all suspended in a void, without context. They exist only in the moment, unanticipated and with no guarantee of lasting, and they are all hedged about with difficulties looming before and behind. They are the shower after two days of grease and cleaning, the hot cup of coffee in the paper cup, the sight of sunlight slanting across the bare wall and its accompanying sense of serenity.

Or now, an empty room, dim and cool, my feet on the windowsill, listening to Duran Duran. How long will this last? I have no idea. We still have this room and the bedroom to clean. We have miles to go before we sleep well.

Last night was a nightmare. I woke at three and could not get back to sleep. My head hurt, my stomach hurt, my back hurt. I was so exhausted I felt sick, but I was perversely wide awake.

We sleep downstairs now, in the empty living room, under the ceiling fan, the air mattress pushed up under the open windows. The windowsill is like our bedside table, holds my earplugs, glasses, phone.

We eat crap all the time. I haven't been able to jog, not because I don't have the time, or the energy, but because, in order to survive the move, I have shut myself down into some kind of dense passivity. There is no place in that dull weight, that blind, vague forward movement for the energy and control of jogging.

I can still write, but slowly. My insights into what happens, and what is right, come to me hours, sometimes days, apart. I got just such a moment of clarity yesterday afternoon and sat down, immediately, to capture it and that is exactly when Keith decided to fly his electronic helicopter around my chair.

Very shortly, he decided, wisely, that it would be much better if he got out of the house entirely. He went off to look at cars. Thank God.

We alternate between some kind of delirious, hormonal, extraordinary feeling of being in love, for the first time, ever, forever, and wanting to hit each other over the head with whatever comes to hand, snarling like dogs in a kennel.

Looking ahead is like looking down a dark tunnel; one that closes in immediately. Everything is only certain to get worse. There are days more of cleaning, of this life. Then there is only more packing to come, there are eight hours of driving, there are days of living in a hotel, looking for a house. We've decided it's too risky to rent a house sight unseen.

A hundred questions are unanswered. What will we do with the dogs? What will we do with the stuff on the car trailer? How long will it take to find a house? Will we have to put our expenses on the credit card, until the Army reimburses us?

Relief, in effect, is weeks away. So there is nothing for it but to take what comes, when it comes. At least we may be ready to leave here by Wednesday, to descend one more level down into the awfulness. As bad as this is, I suspect it's only purgatory compared to Georgia, which will be hell itself.

At least, by then, the end will be in sight.