Breakfast is served

Back in the US, back in California, back in a small town. (The Beatles, Otis Redding, Dream Academy, who captures it best?) Things have changed hereabouts, and a fresh glamour has attached itself to whatever hasn't. America is beautiful and monstrous (not least at breakfast time) and while I didn't exactly forget that while away, my awareness of it faded (just as Amsterdam's brick-and-fog beauty now grows mistier with the day). I would not have willingly returned much sooner than I did, but I am happy to be here now.

As well: back to marginal employment, and watching my pennies but not my clock. It's been a while, but more of my life has been spent this way than not and all in all I prefer it so. I've never been one for a budget: if income is limited then the only thing I know to do is create a fixed list of expenses and try not to stray from it. It's not exactly a return to my Coop days--start-up costs in moving to Ithaca were probably under a thousand 1995 dollars, whereas getting settled in Fairfax will cost us something like $50k before the year is out, to cite only the most indicative example--but in the most important respects it is the same: the unending world of consumptive possibilities is hereby held at bay and my time is once again largely my own (when it isn't Felix's of course).

So things are new and old alike, but above all they are different from what, these past several years, they have been. I write in mid-November, under bright blue skies, in 67 degree (20 Celsius) weather. I write from my bed, where I work, when I work, and confer with my colleagues only when I wish and never in person. The problems, or even existence, of gargantuan banks are of no further interest to me, and Science News arrives on time and reliably. Inside I am surrounded by space, artificially and delightfully empty space (though day by day our shipment from Amsterdam draws closer, threatening to end this relatively clutter-free existence). Stepping outside I find enormous trees and small mountains at my door, dry rangelands and great waters a short drive further. I buy the groceries, I cook dinner, I clean, washing dishes by hand. I travel by foot and, when I have to, by car. I live without stairs. This is not how it was in Amsterdam.

More than any of this, leaving Amsterdam means leaving a small life's worth of people behind. I won't pretend otherwise: many, perhaps most, of those I knew there will write a last few wistful emails before disappearing for good. It is not as one would wish it to be, but most of the characters in the Play of Life in retrospect turn out to have inhabited bit parts; who will assume a lead role is one of the more interesting questions this turn of page raises. I'm neither author nor director, just another actor really, so my say in these matters is limited. I write this blog to let those who would continue to share participation in each others' plays at least keep track of how mine is unfolding. Comments have always been welcome and always will be.

Fairfax
November 2009