A Big Move
Spiritually, that is. It's actually less than 3 miles away.
I moved to Portland sight unseen in March 2016 after a breakup that should have happened years earlier. In the span of eight years, I’ve lived in three different apartments in the same building I first moved into—in fact, all three were even on the same floor. My moves involved people helping me shuttle things down the hall with borrowed dollies and handcarts.
I liked my building’s central location in the city and the excellent bars and restaurants in my neighborhood. Weekends were boisterous. Even if I was just lounging on my couch watching a movie, hearing the drunken laughter echo outside made me feel like I was somewhere, like I existed among other humans even as I spent time alone. I loved bringing a book to the crowded brewery after work, sitting at the bar with my dinner and beer as laughter and chatter formed a comforting wall around me.
Much has been said about the eerie quiet of the early pandemic days weeks months but the truth is, the neighborhood never really recovered. It’s still vibrant, with boutiques and food absolutely worth trekking for, but the sounds and smells that I enjoyed earlier soured.
Over the years, I grew exasperated for one reason or another and wanted desperately to move. (Usually it was because I cannot for the life of me understand why a building completed in the 2010s didn’t account for climate change and install fucking air conditioning! But then again, I’ve mentioned earlier about my constant itch to run away, too, so, anyway!) I even went so far as to tour other apartment buildings a few times. But the timing was never right, my budget was never right, and then of course life happened at me aggressively and circumstances kept me firmly in place.
My oncology team drilled into my head: 150 minutes per week of exercise during treatment (and forever) if I wanted to make it through treatment and reduce the odds of a recurrence. I still used my Peloton1 religiously throughout active treatment but my rides were certainly shorter and challenged me far more. And let’s be real fucking honest, folks—I didn’t even have the energy to shower daily until recently. (I will not be giving exact dates on this, OK? Let’s move on.) So my primary exercise was walking. I often walked the neighborhood slowly, panting. Painfully. It wasn’t all bad, though. I marveled at vines growing up a brick wall and the flocking crows but felt nauseated by the smell of piss and car exhaust crowding my pitiful, sick body. The black grimy highway dust accumulated on my window sills too fast for comfort. I wondered if living close to a highway for so long did this to me. (You always wonder what did this to you, stupidly, pointlessly.) (Then again…)2
While the egirls did their Hot Girl Walks and the normie-adjacent folks did their Mental Health Walks, I did my Don’t Die Before I Turn 40 Walks. Josh and I walked different routes all the time to stave off the boredom of these tedious little “jaunts,” but I still wished I could just walk to a park and look at a goddamn tree without having to drive first.
The impetus for our recent move actually wasn’t necessarily because of the aforementioned angst (though that was certainly part of it)—it was a fire in our building, the second one we experienced since Josh moved in with me in 2020. The first one mercifully did not flood us but we were less lucky this time. I had snuck back into the building to assess the damage once the fire was safely out two floors above us and just happened to still be in the apartment using the bathroom when the first leak sprung from the track lighting in the kitchen. I moved quickly, putting down buckets and pots, saving our stuff from serious damage. It was close—there was a lot of water coming down from our ceiling.
I was fed the fuck up. We viewed a duplex unit in a different, quieter (but still active and thriving) neighborhood two days later and signed a lease before the week was out. It has now been three weeks since we moved in and we still have too many cardboard boxes lurking and closets barely containing the depths of my depressing (and depressed) consumerism. Despite the sheer mass of relentless stuff, we’re making progress.3
Most important immediate upgrades:
I am no longer inhabiting my former Sick Bitch Home. (I could write a whole goddamn thing about THAT but I don’t feel like it rn.)
I now wake up to birdsong every morning.
My neighborhood walks smell like blooming flowers and trees. April is a beautiful time to move.
Charlie purrs now! This dude LOVES IT!!
There’s a lot still left to do around here and things move glacially when you’re in a post-cancer body with all of its frustrating energy limitations. But there are also new tasks ahead of me that feel joyful—pulling weeds (yes, seriously), designing a haven in my little outdoor patio/garden, determining what I can grow in my raised garden bed, window shopping for hummingbird feeders. Yes, there are boxes of bullshit but there are also flowers and tomatoes in my near future.
Some Stuff I’m Into Right Now
Just a little something between friends.
If you haven’t been watching Shōgun on FX, you don’t know what you’re missing. Hiroyuki Sanada is just unmatched.
I noted it above but want to make sure I stress it in actual text: North Woods by Daniel Mason is my favorite novel that I’ve read recently.
Listen to Melgría by Reyna Tropical.
k I love you bye bye
Reach out if you wanna be Peloton friends! I’ll give you the link to my profile.
Sorry sorry I’m trying to delete the stuff that stresses my lovely readers out about potential causes of death lurking!
Should I host my first ever garage sale? Have you ever done it? Is it worth it? Tell me your thoughts/experiences!