Oh, now I remember what it’s like to be pregnant. The everyday violence of the world is beyond too much. I had to kill my television. Can barely bring myself to get online.
And now I do and I learn that the house I grew up in–the one my grandfather designed and built in 1920 when my step-dad was a little kid–the one I brought my daughter home to when she was just a few months old and we needed shelter–well, the new owners “don’t like the Spanish style” and plan to tear it down.
My mom relays this news, saying “When we see the house torn down, we will have more appreciation for the suffering of people who have to see their whole village wiped out.”
I guess so, but mostly my disgusted irritation with human beings blooms. I mean, if they “don’t like the Spanish style,” why the fuck did they buy it? I’m just wondering. Not that I’m going to summon my ancestors to haunt whatever house in whatever style they decide they might like or anything…
It’s kinda funny, actually, because just yesterday I sat right here watching out my window–the lavender and the roses and all the crazy green and flowers of spring–and even though I own this little house I understood as I took it all in that there is no settled down, that I would always be a traveler, that in a year or a decade I’ll move on.