The packed-ness & the living-like-refugees-ness of the house is starting to get to me. It can't just be the inaccessibility of books & records. There's a moment when you realize you can weave your way through all your unordered possessions in the dark, you know exactly when to shift your hip very slightly to the left so as to avoid hitting it on the sharp corner of the craft table which is sitting for no reason in the middle of the dining room, & then to shift your whole center of gravity even
more to the left immediately afterward so as to avoid running smack into the center support bar of your bed, which is for no reason lying on top of the craft table (not supporting, say,
your bed) & jutting out over its edge. Under this bar, by the way, is an illustrated novel by Erika Lopez & a giant book full of pictures from Bergman films. Also for no reason. But that moment when you realize your internal, tacit-knowledge cartographer has plotted out the coordinates of all this things
in their wrong places: that moment is full of despair.
Also, I am saddened by my lack of things like lemonade, ice cream (pink ice cream sounds especially nice), samosas, & more samosas.
