Tonight is my last night in an apartment I do not like. I have, as I suspect most people do, underestimated how much work moving is. Even taking it room by room, I am not sure if I will sleep tonight.
I’m passing the time by organizing my things, as I am long past moving them into boxes. Chief of my frustrations was my aquarium, which is hard to clean, because things live in it. The last time I moved, my fish survived a cross country road trip in four cereal containers that are just big enough to keep three or four of them alive, if not happy, for a limited period. The bettas, I have two, get their own containers; Snoopy (who we call the pup) and Tywin (he’s red with silver scales and he’s cagey; the name is oddly appropriate) are the fish I love the most, yes, but they’re also the most likely to eat my other fish. So they get their own mobile homes, as they get their own tanks.
I do not like this apartment, although I don’t quite hate it. It has its baggage. I will be happy to be living alone, again. Still, I’m intermittently stopping to wonder if I am going to miss it, something which, even a few hours ago, seemed impossible. I’m listening to old episodes of This American Life as I organize, and in particular I’ve reached out two old favorites; “20 Acts in 60 Minutes” and “Our Friend David,” both of which remind me of the places I first heard them. I have a weirdly clear memory of hearing “20 Acts” while on an elliptical machine at Bard’s gym, pre-renovation. I was in my last apartment, in New York, when I first heard “Our Friend David.” I loved that apartment. I cannot shake the feeling that everything will be alright, if I just manage to bring my fish and my own self back to the house next to the church, with its peeling blue paint and its unfortunate tendency to wake me up with its bell on Sunday morning. I do not know if I will ever love a place as much as I loved that one.
Somedays I want to build Snoopy’s dog house, so I can lie on the top and look at the sky.