Failure of the Day: Boon

And here we are. The move itself was semi-disastrous—saved only by several of Chris’s big strapping men friends from work coming to our rescue. Suffice to say we could really have used a freight elevator. I am of course not anybody’s first choice when it comes to adventures in heavy lifting, but I pitched in as much as I could—and more than I should have—and as a result had to spend much of the next day in bed while Chris labored to start getting the place in order. An inauspicious start, but we are undeterred.

By now, we are just about unpacked and largely settled in. Boxes have been emptied and pictures have been hung. The new apartment is gaspingly beautiful and easily the nicest place either of us have ever lived. I spend a fair amount of time twirling in it, still not quite grasping the enormity of my good fortune. Still, though, I am not the world’s best (or really, even in the top, say, 100 million) at adapting to change, and the spikes in my anxiety level appear as plainly on Chris’s face as they do on mine (he frowns his concern; I bloom with whole constellations of pimples the likes of which I never saw in adolescence).

As I adapt to the south bay heat, it is a testimony to something or other in my fucked head that I calm myself before bed by reading the Inferno. (The Durling translation—David, is that the one you like?) It is my loss, I know, but I am having a very hard time taking it seriously. It reads like Naked Lunch to me; which is to say I just can’t glean any emotional content from it; it’s too over the top. I focus too heavily on the author, I suppose, and I can only picture the Genius getting off on it, dredging the murkiest corners of his brain for the craziest imaginable shit. It does the trick though; one canto before bed and my brain is purring like a kitty and ready for a peaceful night of rest. There’s something to be said about moving and relativity there. And so we are home.