I feel like an interloper on my own blog. Like trying to hang out with someone I used to be best friends with, but its been a while and I can't quite remember how it used to go.
We want to be ourselves but sometimes its embarrassing to have changed. It's vulnerable to be seen valuing new things, trying out new ways of being, and most scary, to no longer rep a lifestyle that seemed intrinsic but was apparently just a stage. What I'm trying to say is that I moved.
Just today I officially moved out of my house on Mallory Avenue, lovingly referred to as the Fox Den. 100 year old rhododendrons tree-bushes cover all but the front door. You have to hunch to get in. And once inside, you find a space humming with female energy. Dark, circular, private and introspective. Visiting men are like sparks in an otherwise dark night. Sarah, Sarah, Jamie, Kenya, Polly, Maggie, Lovely Sabrina. And countless women before us, apparently all naked and hairy, as evidenced by nude photos found in the walls. This house even has a sink in each room, a sure sign of female occupation, in both senses of the word.
I was the one that stayed while everyone else moved out and on, no longer needing the long talks and baths. Ready to go into the light and be seen. It took me a little longer but I too have taken that path, out the door, ducking under the rhoddys, into the light. The light, in this case, being David's house. A house with pale peach colored walls, high ceilings and an unfettered backyard. A house with a yellow floor and a swing in the living room. Its so different! It makes everything feel different. It must mean that I am different too.
But then I see the signs that even in this space, I'm still myself. There's my tendency to leave bits of things wherever I last was. My need for alone time. My moods, my food, my refusal to interact with a dishwasher. I guess the main difference, between now and then, is that I'm not sad. At least not all the time. And I realize now what an effect being sad has on one's outward character. There is a new neighbor down the street and she's sad. We can see her sadness from inside the house as she walks by outside. It ripples her outline, giving her a watering filter. She is how I was. It's attractive! I'm totally drawn to her and think about her too often and can't wait to know her stories and wish she was writing a tell-all blog. Sadness is inviting, happiness is deflecting. Will you still like me, in my new house?