In Which I Think of Rearranging My Home

I live in a very small apartment. I have a living room, a bedroom, a smidgen of a kitchen, a dab of a bathroom, an afterthought of a closet. All told, I lay claim to about 550 square feet. I've been here almost 7 years.

I've always been fascinated by small living spaces. Gypsy carts, sailboats, treehouses, airstream trailers. A place for everything and everything in its place. I've got everything tetrised into this place like you wouldn't believe. Folding chairs stuck in corners for when guests come over. Pans stored in the oven. My computer on a rolling bass amp so it can be tucked behind my falling-apart big chair when it's not in use. A fold out couch the size of a small love seat. Bookcases on every wall possible. Zines, hats, and other goodies hanging from the ceiling.

I love my little place, even with all the clutter. But all of a sudden I am so fuckin bored with how it's set up. The time has come to shuffle my belongings, clear out what I don't need, kick the dust off of everything and see where it settles. I think tonight I'll start with the kitchen. That's got to be the easiest room to break down and rebuild, right?

that time of year again

You gotchyer day people and you gotchyer night people. Oh, sure, daytime is great. Sunshine, warm air, blue skies, green trees. Lunch, a fine meal. Folks are hustling and bustling, jobs get done, houses get built. Kids play in the park, families walk around Lake Ella. Nothing wrong with daytime.

But I perk up as the colors fade out of the world and everything goes grey, black, and silver. Anything's possible at night. When I'm lacing up my boots and headed out the door into the moonlight, I might just get dinner and come home again. Or I might run into a crowd of freaky weirdos and get swept into the darkness, stumbling up my front steps later with the dawn behind me, adventure clinging to my clothes.

I know plenty of people who get depressed as the nights lengthen, who need special lamps and trips to sunnier climes to survive the winter. Not me, buddy. I need a hooded sweatshirt and ten dollars for beer. A knit cap for my shaved head and good friends to laugh in the shadows.

Two parades (pretty much) go past my house every year. The Springtime Parade celebrates all that sunshiny brightness, the blooming dogwoods, the chirping peeps, fresh cut grass. It happens at ten in the morning in April and my parade parties have grown increasingly baby-friendly and kid-filled. The Winter Parade, coming up in a month, glitters in cold darkness. It's an event of flames throwing ghosts against the walls and people banging rocks together to scare off the prowling predators. We drink, we eat seared meat, we cheer for the parade until it ends and then cheer for ourselves long into the night. I love this season!