All of the hullabaloo of the past couple days, all of the obsessive and painstaking planning and packing and stuff-reducing activities of the past couple months, all of that tremendous effort became worth it today when by 5pm the truck was packed and parked, brandishing its permit, the house was clean(er than it’s been at any point in the past three years), everything that was going to be donated had been donated, we’d gotten healthy food to bring with us on the road, I’d closed my bank account, and there wasn’t another thing to worry about. We even got complimented by our movers. “You guys were so prepared; it was easy!” I think I may carry that praise with me to the grave, it felt so good.

Now all that remains is to sleep on the hard floor of our home sweet home for one more night and then, tomorrow morning, get going on our way to the future.

The baby elephant chair is gone from our lives, a cause for both celebration and regret (it was the welcoming surface upon which we both used to collapse after a long day). We had to pay a guy $35 to take it to a nearby donation center, but boy is the peace of mind worth every penny. Special thanks to Liz, who drove over this morning out of sheer love and generosity to see if we could make it fit in her car (we couldn’t).

We’re almost there. I feel like we’ve been moving for years, but we’re almost there.

Don’t you love sequels?

I can’t quite decide if hearing the insane duck quacks of squirrels outside my window in the morning makes up for the lack of geckos here.

It’s tempting to believe that my aesthetic sensibilities were always highly developed and sophisticated, and that even as a kid I was able to appreciate very adult cultural experiences. Hey! I think. By the time I was a teenager I was reading Raymond Carver and Bukowski for fun! I adored ancient Greek theater and dissected the subtleties of Tom Waits lyrics! Go me!

And then something happens like my second viewing of Citizen Kane the other night, and I realize that in actual fact I have been for most of my life a complete pimpled philistine who couldn’t tell her toes from Artaud. Folks, I watched that movie, widely acclaimed as one of the finest American cinematic creations of all time, at the age of 17 and vividly remember finding it horrifically dull. Despite the fact that I had a fantastic, dynamic, excited teacher telling me just exactly why its cinematography and pacing were so brilliant and modern. Despite the fact that I was totally infatuated with his opinion about everything and sucked down every last artistic recommendation he gave me (see above re: Tom Waits lyrics). Despite the fact that it was frankly kind of embarrassing to admit that I had absolutely no idea why anyone would even be able to get past the first 5 minutes of this towering classic film.

My recollection of the wholly unrewarding nature of watching Citizen Kane was so powerful that I attempted to dissuade Ross from putting it on our Netflix list (he’d never seen it, and wanted to) and warned him repeatedly that he would most probably find it wretchedly boring when it did in fact arrive.

Well, it arrived. And we watched it, having nothing else to do. I was fully prepared to get up and potter around the house while it was going on, or start working on the article I had to write.

And then, of course, I was completely riveted from the opening shots, because it is, in fact, an utterly brilliant, astonishingly beautifully shot, funny, smart, fascinating, brave movie. And now I can finally admit to myself that my taste has not always been the shining beacon of absolute clarity and good sense that it now clearly is at last, and will ever, ever be.