Tiberius on the lam: Measuring Time
The shock of the turn that our lives have taken is wearing off. I no longer wake up with the metallic taste in my mouth from adrenaline and stress. The daily crying ended. I have a deep sense of peace with the decision that we made to leave behind life in Maryland, removing Tibe from the neighborhood where people talked about needing to carry guns to kill him. Now, no longer in the space of shock and crisis, I am in the space of uncertainty. Where will we move next? When? At what point will I be thinking and writing with all of my books again?
The truth is, I do not know. That fact may be as anxiety provoking as the harassing calls from neighbors, the daily interaction with animal control. Rather than a particular date on the calendar when we will all be resettled, I have some benchmarks to measure our time on the lam.
Today I suspended our subscription to The New York Times. I can suspend it for six months, retain digital access, and then restart it at our new home, avoiding any cancellation. So this is one time benchmark: the six month window from the Times. (And given that the Times will not do daily delivery in Saginaw, the house on Court Street seems less desirable.)
I have a prescription that needs to be renewed in April. I would like to have a new doctor by then. In the same vein, I hurried on my way out of town to get my teeth cleaned. I am good for six months, but I am dedicated to regular oral hygiene, so I need by May to see a dentist again.
There are two hundred coffee filters in the packet we bought for the new Mr. Coffee here at the house. We use just one a day. This is the firm line I will hold. I can see a dentist in Saginaw and find a doctor. I can even see my way to cancelling the Times, but if I use up all of these coffee filters, something has gone terribly wrong.
Across the street from the Court Street Victorian is an old elementary school that is for sale. I imagine buying it and turning it into an artist colony. A room for a letter press printer, writing studios, art studios. It is a short walk from downtown. Summer residencies for writers and artists and musicians. There is so much space here. It invites the wildest of considerations for how we might spend our lives. Do large spaces open new perspectives on time? Or is it just me?
I think part of why we we’re compelled to move, to shake up our lives, is that I have been struggling with two poems, each about smelling honeysuckle. Though I do not believe this, I think God was frustrated with all of the writing about honeysuckle. How many times can one person smell it? How many poems can one write about it? Is the reason that the poems could never quite be completed because I was spending too much time attending to honeysuckle and not to other, perhaps more important, things?
There are many things I miss for moments from the house we lived in: my books, the perfect bedside table, the couches in my office, the washing machine. I can live though with what I have, and I can pack up what I need to live in less than a week. I can flee and bring with me what is most valuable in a short period of time. I have the agility of my ancestors. When the barbarians are at the gate, I know what to grab. I know when to go.
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