on crying (can’t), cheap perfume and change

Really, you don’t need a gym membership if you move as frequently as I.

Yesterday I got 99% of my stuff shifted to new digs. Stairs at departure and destination. Carting boxes and heavy items every couple months — or less, depending on how quickly a roommate unravels* — helps keep the muscles toned, the back strong, the legs sturdy.

*record to date: 4 days

I might cry were there any tears to shed. I might laugh were there elements of humor in a cohabitation closing, officially, today. Fact is, there’s more tragedy than anything.

The tragedy of a man charmed by the wily ways of a woman demure and deceitful. Oh! She wears that scent well. Like her cheap rose perfume that leaves the air drenched with her presence long after she’s left the room.

It’s a story as old as the hills, ain’t it. Women are the more dangerous sex. I’ve long said it and will continue to until life shows differently. The animalistic urge in some men yearns to protect the damsel in distress. Who – watch out! – clenches a knife concealed behind her back. She brings trouble wherever she goes. Her history with men – and women – reads like a gouged minefield. Those who her path too intimately are rendered amputees of the heart.

Still she survives to deceive, mislead and deal darkness another day. The dangers of the demure is lost on common men. And not a few women too.

They say it’ll catch up with ’em. That life inherently evens out the score. Were that true, why do so many wicked women run free and damaged hearts – even entire lives – are left behind to rot like a sickened caribou unable to keep pace with the herd.

I can’t cry over leaving this house so full of light and, when I arrived, space. That’s changed. Now there’s enough stuff to fill a good-sized storage unit. One person’s arrival and the whole/holistic flow is altered. That’s often all it takes. One person to muck up a good thing. Or initiate a series of occurrences, shouting matches and shit that gone! is what was good. Poof. Just like that.

There’s much about this house I’ll remember. Atticus. The gradual weeklong introduction of Atticus and Spicy. The flying fur at first subsided and gave way to genuine feline friendship.

The light pouring in through my large bedroom windows and throughout the house, amplified by the cathedral ceilings and skylights.

Friendly discussions with homeowner/roommate that intensified with Nancy’s arrival. Would the outcome have changed had I been invited into the roommate search? Possibly. Probably. A different person, a different energy, a different outcome. Probably woulda prevented my moving: this soon, two months after arrival.

Water under the bridge. Polluted toxic brown water.

All that is to be remembered. But what I’ll remember keenly, I reckon, is vomiting, several times over, and the severe asthmatic and bronchial attack incurred at the odor of Nancy’s perfume. The cheap rose that … well, you read above.

Breathing it in, hour after hour, sent my body into respiratory arrest. Food poisoning of the bronchial and lungs. No escaping the odor with the house design and abundant perfume use. She uses it like people use water for showering.

Yes, I was violently ill. For the entire night. Recovery took days. Felt like someone had slid her hand down my windpipe, clutched hold of my airways and lungs. And squeezed hard. Real real hard. With a hand coated in acid.

That’s Nancy’s perfume. Cheap floral overpoweringly cloying and acrid. That’s Nancy, perfume reflecting its wearer.

It shook down badly real fast. Not in one or two quick strikes of lightning like with the snowstorm Rampager. No, this downhill slide was avalanche. Forces unstable unleashed into tumult and changing the landscape.

Well, it’s sad. Even though I haven’t a tear to shed. Sad the damage done (nuthin’ I can’t put behind me with Time). Sad the wicked woman who sought even at my last night to taunt and goad me into putrid perfumed web.

I didn’t fall for the bait. My intelligence and perceptiveness forbade it.

And that, my friends, is the profitable response to a black widow. Do not fight it. Do not engage. Fix the eyes on the anachroid. Do not turn your back. Detach. And move away.

I’ll miss you lighted house, the space and the flow of you when I arrived, before things changed. I wish you well, house, and the occupants you shelter – though prophesy tells of things to come.

Ah well; ust as well I move on.

Be well house. I’ll have you in my prayers.


4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Karyn @ kloppenmum
    Mar 03, 2012 @ 12:48:47

    …this time…fingers crossed.


  2. Karyn @ kloppenmum
    Mar 03, 2012 @ 15:35:23

    Pratical and pragmatic is good. My sewing is not. 🙂


  3. Karyn @ kloppenmum
    Mar 03, 2012 @ 15:35:52

    Let’s say, practical not prat-ical!


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