under the pages.
We're here!
Moved in, that is, or, well, in the house with a significant number of boxes waiting patiently to be unpacked. Ithaca is palimpsestic (they weren't kidding about it being left-wing, but it's not as though we're going to object) and ruthlessly beautiful, as promised; as the picture suggests it is also colder than I thought it would be, but maybe that's just because there is more space. I will spend the weekend being very productive and getting things arranged, because we are hosting Thanksgiving here, and you all should come. I have some semblance of a menu arranged--with vegan options, promise!--and I really want everyone to come see the house.
And I have been so uncharacteristically quiet these past few weeks, so catching up would be nice, if you aren't as inclined to celebrate the holiday aspect, so it can also be considered a little housewarming party. I should bother Henry to say hello to the internet, too, so maybe you can expect something from him if I am persuasive enough, and it's not as if he's not nearby! Which is also really nice. I am not the sort of person I think anyone ever imagined becoming domestic, despite how relentless I am about making my living space suit my tastes, and I don't know if that even really applies now, but a little bit of settling down is proving to be exactly what I needed, and it is only a little. I'll always be more of a wild thing at heart, but there's space here for that, too.
I gave some books away before we left Boston, just because there were things I had read so many times that they were practically a part of me already but not quite well-loved enough I couldn't stand to part with them, and that lessened the load of everything we had to take a bit. And then, when we got here, I saw down the street that some people were having a garage sale, in their mittens and jeans with a space heater in the back of the garage because it is fall, so I snuck off and came back with a bunch of dead Russians. The couple selling things off has a daughter, aged about fifteen, who I got to talking with, so I came back afterward and loaned her Anne Sexton's Live or Die and Plath's Ariel, as she'd already read The Bell Jar and could in fact quote from memory. I also got her Antarah ibn Shaddad's "Poem of Antar", for more variety, although I think the man's legend itself might hold more appeal for her, who knows. She told me to read some Joyce Carol Oates, so I ought to look into that.
Professionally and somewhat too openly speaking I am still technically in contract with Delight, and they have a club here that will happily let me perform (all the places here are called things like Euphoria and Odyssey and Ekstasis, it's great), but that's only sustainable until the New Year, and then I will have to decide what I want to do with myself. Transitioning to something else is sort of a daunting prospect, and I don't know if it's really what is wisest right this second, but it is an inevitability.
Also, I take back all my country panic. This is a city, it's just smaller than what I'm accustomed to, and it's really not that far from New York. We have a modest amount of acreage, but it's fenced, and I can walk down and see the neighbors if I want. Pretty decent balance. I actually did manage to hook up the television, even though neither of us will use it very much, but later I plan on watching The Weather Underground.
Trivia: Greek ekstasis, from which the word ecstasy is derived, means 'standing outside oneself'. I've been thinking about that since we arrived, for some reason.