Cross Your Fingers and Your Toes

So, I made an offer.  He countered.  I accepted.  We’re going to work up the paperwork tomorrow and I’ll write yet another check and we’ll schedule an inspetion and I’ll write another check and we’ll fill out some paperwork and I’ll write another check and then we’ll close and I’ll write another check and we will own more land than a girl knows what to do with.

I really, really hope it works out.  I just think this house is as cute as a button.  Whew, folks!  Whew.  I about want to dance around and throw up.

I checked the TDOT webpage and it looks like the Clarksville Pike widening is happening south of us, between Ashland City Highway and Briley.

And there’s a grocery store about five minutes north of us.  I’m not sure where we go for fast food, but I’m sure our innards will appreciate that.

Holy shit.

Any Day Now

So, I did end up getting through my closet yesterday, which was, I must say, even more eye-rolling than going through my dresser.  I found dresses in the back of my closet that were a size 11.  Which means I’ve been carting around those dresses since I was in high school.  Even more embarrassing is that my parents have never made me come get my stuff from their house, so everythng I have with me would have had to follow me to college, then to grad school, then all around Nashville.

It’s the grad school part that really baffles me.  I hauled this stuff over to North Carolina why?  I mean, I knew I was only going to be there for a couple of years.  Did I think that would include a devistating illness in which I dropped sixty pounds and then woke up compelled to dress like it was still 1987?

It’s funny to me that urge–to believe that there’s going to be some magical transformation that makes you into someone different than you are and that person/you is going to be better, happier, prettier, more successful, and that will happen right as soon as you can figure out how to do… something.

Our whole society seems set up to encourage this kind of belief, that there’s just one more thing you need–better clothes, smaller body, bigger boobs, faster car, slower moments for contemplation, and so on–and then, then you will emerge like a beautiful butterfly from your cocoon of ordinaryness triumphant.

And yet, I believe in transcendance, too, and isn’t that belief that there’s something better out there that you can transform your material circumstances into a better you just a materialist kind of transcendance?

What I mean is that I understand the urge and I can’t say that my impulse for it, even if I believe it comes through art and magic, is somehow less pure than the impulse for it through physical transformation.

Is change really possible?  Radical change?  I don’t know.  But the urge is there, right?  Urge, urge, always the procriant urge.

Lately, though, I don’t feel much like changing.

No, that’s not quite right.  I don’t feel like looking to better myself.  I feel like figuring out how to be more open to beauty and rhythm and being wholly in my place.  If that changes me, fine.  If not, fine.

Just let me feel the warm sun on my face.

Anyway, I have for you this morning the most oddly beautiful thing you’re going to hear all day, I think.  I don’t want to tell you who it is, because I think knowing who it is might stand in the way of you hearing it.  But I do want to tell you who it is, because I think it’ll give you a new appreciation for him.

Anyway, I’ll just say this about it.  He has a beautiful voice.  I’d forgotten that.  And there’s something unfair about the hipsters who love him looking only to his early works for the stuff he did that’s cool to love.  This is from that time when we’re just supposed to think of him as a joke and a mess.

Well, anyway, it occurs to me that you will know who it is the second you hear it.  But listen to this and tell me it didn’t make your morning feel a little more worth it.

I Shall Be Released.