move

I'm starting to box up lifethings. Diligent in setting aside the notoftens or infrequents so that there's less choice. There's something about cutting back that feels good. It's a lot of work to be simple; the apartment will surely be full despite all efforts. Sleep, true, is hard to come by. The night is so incredibly short, the old in me wakes with the light. I've found moments on the grass, on front yards with wine and a book most comforting. The space that holds that moment is too short.


My brother visited from Flagstaff last week. I found myself trying to balance want vs. want - to live in my moment as well as the special moment present when outoftowner happens. I liked looking at his face. A picture of youth, pretty hair, a surprisingly thick mustache, a seamster, the words he used made me feel like his view of the world is growing - a comfort, growth is comfort, visible, a difference.

Mum, bro & I went for breakfast at Homeskillet: salmon hash, cinnamon roll french toast, 3 variances of mimosas - blood orange, mango and cucumber. Thrifted, gossiped, listened to each others voices; my mother continuing, "I feel so whole...all my babies..."

We went for last beers, Karis dressed as Sandy in pleather. "Your friend last night - she got turned up!" Fell asleep hard on top of the covers, toast on the bedside table, computer on lap, mouth open. In the morning bro mentioned snapchatting my glorious sleep ritual, but, instead closed the laptop, covered me in blanket, turned the lights off. After a quick 6-miler the Ferndale clan headed over to grandmum's for a goodbye brunch.

We sat around on patio furniture, the bbq charcoaling pork chops, camp coffee on the stove - the kind you have to use thick gloves to pick up and pour. Sugar and cream handed around, all of us sipping from kitschy mugs. (Something about this photo makes me feel a lot of things. Like, it's a filmstill, or like, I'm a clanmember of cool.)

Sometimes hanging out at this childhood house gets me anxious. I haven't figured it out yet, but I always find myself going through boxes, needing to cut apples, pouring, pouring, I can't sit still. I tried to work on this at brunch, still, I started to file my nails, analyze a friend's workout plan, edit poetry, pour and keep pouring. I think I know why.


The brunch was of mass portions. Sausage, camp potatoes, grilled onions, pork chops, eggs, buttered toast with jam, coffee. I ate like I've never eaten and proclaimed pride over it. "She has to make up for how we don't feed her in Ferndale. Oh, that reminds me, when you move out, do you want us to save you all the bread heels?" "Yes."


I had to work a Rosé tasting at Vinostrology (help educate the incredulous pink drinker's). It was slow, because it was blue.