moved out blues



last Saturday night, everything except the landlord's cat scratched orange leather couch and dining furniture was cleared out of the old space. I sat on the couch for a few minutes for the last time looking at the empty spaces where our stuff had been. Two brazilian sisters had come earlier to clean it top to bottom with mops and rags. They sang a few pop songs, yelled rapid portuguese into their cell phone all the while making all surfaces spotless. C says their secret is ammonia, and clorax. My usual efforts of scrubbing with the wimpy ass 7th Generation Eco Friendly cleaners had left a serious layer of grime in the kitchen. And now that was gone too.



For once, the mental shift is too fast for me. I've done more than 27 moves, but now I finally feel the twangs. Something which meant so much to you-the one place in the world which has the most intimate meaning- it's now a place forbidden and impersonal to you. I think this is what divorce must be like. The fact I've boiled pasta one hundred times on that particular stove means nothing now.



But after sleeping one night in the new house, I've plum forgotten the joys of the old house. I thought how could I have lived as a troglodyte for so long. The bedroom, bath, and office lacked windows in our Camelia space. There is no room without a window in the new house.