My new living room.

Settling into my new temporary home and a slower pace of life. My favorite feature at the Bookstore Maven's former abode is the front porch. Deep, secluded and shaded, with a romantic swing and a separate seating area, fringed by twisting honeysuckle vines and protective conifers. I take most of my meals out here and am re-learning my childhood habit of whiling away entire hours immersed in other lives, entered via a stack of library books.

My other living room is the coffeehouse of the day, so I can indulge, briefly, my Internet obsessions. I try to mix the location up a bit from day to day, so I don't become "that weird lady who's always at Xxxx." But with Meadowlark and Jones each just a few blocks away, I usually end up at one of those locales. So maybe I'll become "that lady" yet. Everyone needs a goal.

Funny how uncomfortable it's been, at first, to not really have anything "to do." Plenty to do, actually -- just no immediate daily obligations, unstructured by the lack of a day job. (Don't worry too much -- I do seem to be settling into it.)

Actually, the whole situation is more than a little reminiscent of my summer in Oaxaca. Walking (or, here, biking) as my main mode of transportation brings me more in tune with my surroundings; I spend a good deal of time outside, reading or writing in my journal; I have plenty of time for friends and for contemplation of What Comes Next.

(Unfortunately, the similarities to Oaxaca do not extend to an inability to comprehend the language floating all around me, making it more difficult to ignore the whiny children and shouted conversations that seem to have become accepted aspects of coffeehouse culture. )


Foot power as my mode of transportation: Yes, the Saturn is gone; my lease was up at the end of June. I briefly thought about asking whether I could rent it for just a couple more months. But then I thought, um, Why? Why spend all more money I don't have, when everything I really need is really quite accessible from where I am? Bonuses: I can indulge the smug attitude of no longer being part of the carbon footprint problem, and my thighs will be rock hard by the time I leave for Morocco! (Hey, a girl can dream ... )


Been spending a lot of time lately thinking about What I Really Need. Materially, that is. I was so proud of myself for downsizing as I moved out of The Bungalow Formerly Known as Lola. (Aside: What's my deal today with Capitalizing Everything?) I got rid of most of my furniture and sent boxloads off to Goodwill. Yet I was still only barely able to squeeze the material manifestations of my former life into a spare bedroom larger than the average storage locker. What the above photo fails to show is the two rows of boxes, floor to ceiling, behind the miscellaneous detritus. Books, mostly. Books I've either already read or likely never will. To keep them has far more to do with vanity and emotional attachment than with actual need. Maybe that's true of the rest as well?

Then, moving into my temporary digs, thinking I'd really pared down to the nitty gritty -- only the things I'd really need for the next two months. Even so, that came down to about a dozen boxes and a couple of suitcases. A dozen boxes for two months? Really? Well, no -- not really. Most of it is already stowed in a back closet. Much of the rest is dribs and drabs of toiletries that don't really do anything. And then there's the dishes and glassware I inexplicably keep breaking -- that'll really cut back on the need to repack.

Maybe it's all practice for the next step: two bags for the next two years in Morocco. Even then, from what I hear via former Peace Corps vols, much of what you bring ends up never leaving the suitcase.

Or maybe it's all practice for moving on in life ... paring down, offloading the no longer necessary in favor of what's really important. A life well-lived needn't be proved by overaccumulation.

A friend yesterday was telling about visiting an antiques store overstuffed with ... stuff. Not antiques, just stuff. Old shot glasses, action figures, Wheaties boxes.

"What do you collect?" the woman behind the counter asked. Shocked she was to find out my dear friend doesn't have rows of bobbleheads or spoons or commemorative plates holding up the

"Memories," I told my friend. "Next time, say you collect memories."

Quote of the day:

“The curse of the human race is not that we are so different from one another, but that we are so alike.” – Salman Rushdie, “The Enchantress of Florence”