Time enough for a final cuppa coffee on the back patio with the dogs before I pack the car.
So began the thought in an email to a friend; now to complete it.
I’m moving today.
Hardly newsworthy for this old-timer nomad. Newsworthy is, well, I’m not gonna talk about it publicly.
As I was penning my friend, home had become two ships passing in the night. (Three actually but mother and daughter are on the same vessel so it amounts to two.) Veritably never a word spoken.
Yes, it is possible to share a cabin and say nothing, and/or have nothing to say, to each other. I invite you to try it for a week or two, as an experiment, then contemplate your level of comfort, ease, safety and support.
Cold silence is not the worst of afflictions; in some circumstances, it’s the prettiest part of a picture.
Ill will and hatefulness are worser afflictions.
It begins as a single villianious microbe who has worked and wiggled its way in, perhaps cleverly, perhaps innocently.
Over time, one splits and becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes six or eight, until a colony is formed. Then a troop. A troop becomes an army, an army an empire.
Hatefulness is that way. Like a cancer. It spreads and spreads, feeding off the casualities of itself and the light, taking down whatever it can, destroying all that it encounters in its march and expansion into clean lighted territory.
And thus it is that I am moving.
Today. The culmination of another tremendously arduous search (the prior just a few months ago), made so by the peculiar Denver lack of responsiveness — I’ll be sounding like a broken record if these moves keep up!
In honesty, I’m not looking forward to my new destination. It’s a ghetto and in a part of Denver I’d otherwise never choose for myself and the room is lacking on several levels, including literally. There’s nothing in there but … well, why spoil the fun by spilling those beans early.
The purpose of this next destination is not to live and thrive but to provide safety and escape from deadly forces.
Their names are ill will and hatefulness.
This completes my final post from the back porch of the House of Wincing. Not Windsor. My wincing. My pain. My suffocation. My expulsion.
Beware the House of Wincing.
I shall miss you (canine) Rocco and Tazzy and (felines) (S)Nappy and Chulo. You have been my only happiness, comfort and friends. Thank you, animals.
Last swallows of black coffee. Now to the Subaru to pack.
S’long from the House of Wincing.