Tag Archives: it plays for me

The Edge of Tomorrow

24 Oct

See, the wine glasses in this temporary apartment are far too small.  The people upstairs are training for an obstacle race by jumping off the furniture.  The washer is in a haunted closet under the basement stairs.  I don’t have my car, so I can’t drive to my usual grocery store — and I can’t get delivery, because I’m not sure of my post code — and in the UK, if you don’t know your post code, you might as well be dead.  So, I’m dead, haunted, and I can only sip small amounts of wine at a time.  It’s the last part that’s the hardest.

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Did you think I was kidding?

What I’m saying is, we’re moving.  After three years of sinking and swimming, we’re leaving Camelot.  In fact, although I’m writing this now as I eat the paleo snack bars I couldn’t fit into our household shipment, tapping my too-small wine glass and looking out the giant windows of this strange haunted apartment, eyes musing over trees and trash bins, this won’t be published until we have been gone almost a month.  It’s already happened, folks.  It’s over.

I’ve always kept this blog on the gray edge of personal and impersonal.  You’ve known my oddest innermost thoughts, but not the names of my children, for example.  I see no need to change that, now.  Why are we leaving?  It doesn’t matter. It matters that we are gone.  I’m too numb to handle any more goodbyes, any more plans for the future, any more memories of the past.  Tip for you, no charge: if you are planning an international move, don’t save anything for the last week because it will not happen.  Rental house needs cleaning?  Too late.  Books need returning to the library? Prepare to pay a fine.  Friends want to get together for one last coffee?  It’s over.  It’s over.  Your body is still here but your … mind … is … gone.

We’re not going home, because home doesn’t exist anymore.  We’re not moving back to the same zip code — or even the same time zone — that we left three years ago.  Frankly, I feel like we’re going Thelma and Louise, flying off a damn cliff with the police screaming behind us.  (Note to readers: the police are not actually after us.)  Some people are really good at this.  They make careers out of moving from country to country and life to life.  I think they are all crazy, and I guess that makes me crazy, too.

I might start another blog once we settle down in our next home-not-home.  Or I might just dive silently into new oceans and see if I can learn to breathe underwater for a bit.  I have been writing ahead and scheduling posts to come out here from Camelot, taking us through the end of October.  There are so many places I never got to show you, never got to share, never got to complain about or celebrate or just try to capture.  I’m sorry about that.  Maybe I’ll eventually go through my photo archives and pull out the memories of Camelot that feel too painful to find right now.  I don’t know.  I don’t know what is going to happen next.

Tap tap tap on the too-small wine glass.  Sip sip sip from the too-small bowl.  It’s all been too little, too fast.

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