Dispatch From The Brink
T-minus 25 days.
When I sat down to write this update, a scene from The Money Pit flashed into my head. For the non Gen Xers out there, The Money Pit is the 1986 film about a couple, Walter and Anna, an attorney and a musician, from New York City who buy a house in the suburbs. The house turns out to be a total lemon and tests their relationship with each other.
In one scene, Walter (Tom Hanks) arrives home one afternoon his new contractor foreman, Curley (Philip Bosco) tells him that they'll be back after he gets his permits. Walter is confused. Anna (Shelley Long) was supposed to be at the house to meet the permit guy. Curley and crew leave as Walter hears the phone ringing from somewhere. Walter climbs over "gravel piles, sand piles, scrap piles" and over a sink into the house where he finds the phone. It's Anna. In the film, the viewer hears only Walter's version of the conversation:
"Tone"? My voice has no tone.
I'm standing in a pile of rubble
and we don't have the permits to un-rubble it.”
PAUSE as Walter listens.
"Exaggerating"? Honey, we're living in Swiss cheese with a door.”
PAUSE as Walter listens.
"Mozart"? Mozart is dead.
His troubles are over. Help meeee!"
These days, I am Walter. Except all the money in the world won't unrubble my piles.
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We leave our home in Durham for one year in less than a month.
The piles surrounding me are not gravel, sand and scrap. They are boxes both full, taped and labeled and boxes that still need their guts. Books to be shipped, kitchen stuffs that are still in use, bags to take to TROSA, black industrial trash bags chockful with bubble wrap waiting for its second life. Piles for sale: rollerskates and pads, a pair of late 70s banana seat bikes, a vintage scale and glass goblets. Pounds and pounds of clothes that need to be bagged, hung and stored. Riding and bike helmets that sit unblemished as a baby's face. (Take, right???) New items like a back porch rug, ready to be unwrapped, placed and enjoyed by our renters. Piles of phone calls to make (replace this newly broken glass pane, adjust car insurance, cancel a subscription that cannot be done online) and boxes to check. Birthday cards and gifts to mail (but not yet, those darn Cancers!) and the articles of living that I cannot manage without: hand weights, tech, hats, more books, foam blocks.
Some piles are "done". The orchids that Debbi will take. My massive 1960s heavy as heck Vogue pattern book that I will loan to Jill. A plant of Janet's that I will be cared for by Wendy. A box of odds and ends that will be shipped with treasures like a tiny collection of newly found shells from our beach trip last week. The office is no longer my responsibility; the rest of it will be managed by my husband. My part there is done. Heather's house cleaner will be coming to clean right before we leave. These shrimpy piles are few, sadly. And each are a "will be". As in not yet complete. They are success stories. Almost. They are still a pile.
Perhaps the biggest pile at this point, however, is the airline crate Nestor has no interest in. We've asked for all the tricks and tips. Tried, or are trying, all of them. The Covid puppy at age 4.5, never having been in a crate, remains suspicious. Treats help.
And yet.
Nestor's extreme reticence remains a pile. Neither shapeless nor well-defined, his distrust of the crate, a grey plastic clamshell with metal in the narrow window gaps and a "live animals" sticker on it, is the cloud that weeps down constantly on us.
"Help meeee!", I say to Nestor. He sits and cocks his head but remains unmoved.
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While there is no sink lying beached on debris that I fall into, I am both metaphorically and physically drowning in trip prep. So instead of the essay I'd been planning to share, you have a life update. If you're new here, welcome! And apologies. This is not my norm but This is not my norm. I've been on Substack since 2022 and ported my blog entries over so my archives go back quite a bit. Feel free to peruse.
A few suggestions:
If you wait and wonder about the why of it, head here.
If you're looking for humor, head here.
If you have a yen for fiction (tw: abuse), head here.
if you're grieving (I’m sorry), head here.
If parenting has got you reeling, head here.
All of this is free.
95% of what I write has a trauma edge to it, a consideration of what past trauma implies and how we might consider its impact in a different way.
"Likes", shares and comments are so deeply felt that I pick up your vibes all the way over here in Durham. And I will in Berlin, too.
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What I’m Thinking About:
Reviving what was lost and loved is one thing. But what about something that was intentionally lost and not exactly loved? Reviving something lost by disuse and neglect is another. But what about something that was never loved and making into something that slaps? This interview got me thinking about that.
What it means to fully fund essential third places like librarians. And how necessary they are. Here’s a bit on that via The New Yorker.
Reading a whole canon of an author. I’ve just finished a slew of juvenile fiction by Kate DiCamillo including The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, The Magician’s Elefant, Raymie Nightingale, The Puppet of Spelhorst and Beatryce. The Tale of Despereaux is up next. I cannot recommend DiCamillo highly enough. And if it’s been a minute since you read any JF, pick her up. Superb, beautiful writing and characters that will gobsmack you with their naked humanity.
What I’m Reading:
Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. Holy moly is this book a wild, rollercoaster of brilliance and depth! The ! at the end of the title had me dubious but I was won over on page page 1. Here’s Gabino Iglesias’ summary via NPR.org: “Cyrus is a poet, and his obsession with death and martyrs forces him to delve deep into what it means to die, his family's history, the lives of several historical figures, and the ghosts of his mother and uncle. His uncle, who once rode through Iranian battlefields with a flashlight under his face and dressed as the angel of death in order to comfort those taking their last breaths, suffered from severe PTSD. During this process, Cyrus travels from Indiana to New York City to speak with Orkideh, an artist dying from cancer. While there, Cyrus makes a discovery that makes him think his mother was someone much different than he knew her to be.”
BUT you know how much I love sparse, clear, perfect language. Well, Akbar is also a poet and as such, Igelsias says is a “master of economy of language, and that mastery remains untouched in this 350-page novel. The writing in Martyr! dances on the page, effortlessly going from funny and witty to deep and philosophical to dialogue that showcases the power of language as well as its inability to discuss certain things.” Go get this book! And if you do Libby, go listen. The narrator is pure gold. That is all because this book is so golden, I can’t speak of anything else.
Thank you for being here, reader. You are the reason.