The smell of our house has gone from an old, mouldy, un-lived-in smell, to a new, paint-and-citrus-derived-disinfectant smell. Soon it will be a lived-in, cleaned-on-a-regular-basis-but-still-smelling-more-like-cooking-than-cleaning smell.
Everything else I had to say turned out to be a complaint against various perceived ills that will end up forgotten if I just refrain from writing them down. Sorry I had to delete so much. Most of it was about the job market and learning how to paint and my present lack of funds. Some of it was very colourful.
I feel very disconnected from everything and everyone, trying to beg a life for myself here on borrowed property with food given to me, trying to find a job by waving about bits of paper with a list of my professional accomplishments inked onto it. I know there are worse tragedies, but may I say for the record that this is a miserable existence at worst and a frustrating one at best. One thing is certain: this will definitely keep me humble.
I still hate the things I do, most days,--sometimes my utter despite surprises me--but there have been a few times--just a few--where I can feel part of myself changing; unfurling. I think this is right. I think this may be the beginning of something good. I've worked hard to put myself in a place where this situation might occur, but the final moving of events and of my heart is not even under my control. But let us hope.
