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The Move, p. 2 and so on.

So we're all moved in and pretty settled. Marcel is doing great though clearly starting to jones for the great outdoors, but that issue is still subject to debate. I've managed to strip down my objects and belongings so while I still have "a lot of stuff", it's a lot less than it was. My room is a room I can live in, and it's pretty awesome.
My room. Still a work in progress but I'd say 94% there at least.
There you go, that's my room. Still not quite full settled, but it's almost there. I need to get a real rolly chair, for one, and to hang my white/bulletin board. You can see my dual monitors going on, some of my knickknacks unobtrusively placed, and even my beautifully made bed. Yeah, that's a thing I do now. The drawers on top of the desk (upper right corner), which probably won't look like drawers to you, are from my glorious little writing desk; it's leg was breaking so my mom is fixing it.

I even had my first friend over last night. Poor guy got the "full tour", which comprises most of our 1100 sq. ft. Oh yeah, it was grueling I'm sure.

But for really, it's a really great feeling having everything unpacked and feeling settled in. And unlike other attempts at living on my own in some capacity, I'm actually taking ownership (cf. those posts about chores). I don't mean to dismiss past living situations as fruitlessly lazy & ineffectual ventures. I know I kept house somewhat decently in New York, for example; I was great about the kitchen for the most part, but my room was a deathtrap of moldering cum and unwashed everything. Not a complete success, I'd say.

And I don't want to sound off childish platitudes like "But now everything is different...", either, because I'm still the same person, just better at managing things like clutter and cleaning, I hope. Just because it seems like I've got a handle on things now doesn't mean I always will nor does it mean I can kick back and let myself off the hook. It's great I'm keeping house and stuff, but I have to continue keeping house and stuff.

As I said, I had my first "guest" over last night. It was pretty sweet feeling. Welcoming someone into my home, looking around and thinking, "Yeah, this is where I live, and it's not so bad.". That slight sense of pride in the home my roommate and I have put together is a fantastic feeling; far, far removed from the embarrassment I felt in my old room at my parents', where, perhaps haunted by my room in New York, I was usually paranoid about clutter and smells and what people's impressions of me would be.

It's safe to say I don't have that here in the new place. I think, too, that maintaining a home I can be proud of is something I can manage. And that in itself is a great fucking feeling.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…