Now finally housed in a tiny disheveled red-shelved room nestled in an apartment located in downtown Oakland, I sleep restlessly, feet propped on suitcases. Courtesy of Angela Carter, nights at the circus twinkle in my head, my tongue cotton candy-webbed. Under pillow spasms my fist as it clutches invisible rope; under the bigtop billowing high, a child performs, her spangled tights glimmering in the great darkness above the heads of hundreds of gaping patrons in furs and diamonds.
Outside a marble fountain hiccups, moistly, waking me suddenly, sandy-eyed, with the need to pee, quick! (On Making-Self-At-Home agenda: Unplug fountain, vandal-style.) Wandering down the hall, I blink, thinking, This is definitely not the attic.
Despite recent history, I miss it. I long for its peculiar silence, a silence that happens from being established far from the streets and the noise and storm of human voice and hands and feet. I want that dark secretive room cobwebbed by the ghosts of the past and the muffled voices of others nesting below like mice furry and warm and snug. I want a space built like an attic . . . tho’ that’s the hermit in me who longs.
Because I know that I really needed a new change of space, a new change of place. Nostalgia will not get me anywhere but somewhere in my head that is dusty and arid while outside, there is so much to explore. And nostalgia will definitely not get me closer to a finished manuscript.
Now my ears and fingers and eyes must acquaint themselves with light and tall ceilings as the other parts of me progress beyond decampment.
. . .
To those who left me those marvelously detailed accounts re: the history of unmentionables, thank you!