Wow — I moved into my new place in July. It’s not until now, at the very last breath of September, that I find myself where I imagined being the whole time: sitting around a demure little fire in my immaculately cultivated back yard while twilight fades out above me, composing a blog over wireless, the beer at my feet slowly exhaling its carbonation into the salty atmosphere of Bellingham Bay that wafts up Squalicum Parkway in the evenings.
I’m still sore from installing that damn wireless router yesterday — running cables through my 24″ high crawlspace is *not fun*.
But worthwhile, for sure.
Damn it, a hot coal just hopped out of the fire and landed on my foot.
A flock of Canada geese just flew by overhead, dimly silhouetted in the last afterglow of twilight — heading south in anticipation of what will be, Ia hear, a rather cold winter. I can smell my cord of wood from here — light notes of alder and birch on top of aromatic cedar and tannic maple. The smell of it when I was stacking it reminded me of my childhood so acutely it almost hurt, but it’s an altogether pleasant smell now. It is so peaceful here.
Fucking mosquitoes. Time to invest in some more citronella.
It’s funny: I’ve been so busy and so otherminded over the last three months that I think I overlooked what a landmark this is in my life. Place (and more importantly, a sense of rootedness, of tangibility) has always been important to me, yet I’ve been living the transient life of apartments, condos, and rentals for almost a decade and a half. I feel like I am finally standing on bedrock again.
