what it really is
Lots of boxes remain unpacked. Mostly books. Lots of lists with nothing crossed off them, as in “finish painting”. Lots of room for improvement & no money. But apart from some problems with the bathroom plumbing & a recognition that we’d rather romanticised the state of the cellars, it’s been a curiously enjoyable move. I can’t quite believe I’ve been here two weeks. Nothing much has happened except for falling off the kitchen. The sense of transition was experienced at the other end, somehow; it was preemptive. I’ve always wanted to live somewhere old-fashioned, with a black & red tiled hall & a foxglove by the back door. & on the edge of fields & woods. Hawthorn. Dog rose. Weather. So in a way it’s like coming home. Also, I suspect, I’m being reminded of a house I lived in when I was too young to lay down anything that could now be called a memory, a big old terrace in the Midlands. I feel a growing relief to be away from London. But life has this eerie edge of dissociation too, because it really isn’t any of the above things–they’re approximations, metaphors, guesses, passing feelings–& as yet I have no idea what it really is.