This is the longest I’ve stayed put in a very long time. I’ve been here nearly six years. That’s a significant feat because between the ages of 18 and 30, I moved something like thirteen times. In that time, I never lived anywhere longer than three years.

I don’t like planting roots really. As with jobs and lovers and long books, I get restless. I need new spaces. So six years for my nomadic soul is really something. That doesn’t mean that I’m not getting extraordinarily restless. I am. I’d move. Except, well, there’s this project. And I’ve got a good deal on rent, which is my principal reason for staying in this clay pot. Perhaps when I am done here, I will move. Move for the sake of moving. But also moving is like sloughing dead skin. Every time I move I discard a bit of my past life. I could have a giant funeral pyre for all of my knick knack bricabrac.

I’m almost always a transient in my dreams. Dreaming, I’m a happy and homeless traveler.

Where would I go? It doesn’t really matter. I need new vistas. I need new places. I need more shelves. I need movers.

Meanwhile, I threw out my gingerbread house today. That idea, for a diabetic, was really ill-conceived. And I reckon it isn’t any tastier or healthier finely covered in January’s dust.

SS