direct to you from fulton street

so we moved. the important lesson i have learned from this experience is: never, ever move those big heavy things yourself when you could pay a nice troupe of irish lads a nominal fee to move them for you. especially up five flights of stairs in a building where the elevator, though present, is by no means a standard size and will not fit something as simple as a queen-size box spring.

now we are surrounded by many mountains of our own things, wondering what possessed us to want any of them in the first place. where is it all going to go? and of course today my solution to that problem was to go out and buy more things to keep in this house. perusal of two art supply stores, one ride on the F train in front of a dude rolling a fat one, and my linocut blockprinting career is off to a great start there in that plastic bag heaped on the end of the bed. i feel a sense of distinctly american accomplishment: i have made this mess, and now i will stare at it openmouthed.

my spouse for life (hereafter SFL, thank you, state of california) took on the kitchen a few days ago. it's very attractive now. our little salt cellar and the ice-crusher we got for $2 at some weirdo's garage sale on valencia look quite fetching there on the counter together.

i don't think i can make the living room or the bedroom or the bathroom or the walk-in closet nearly so attractive but i believe that is my duty. however at the moment i'm not up to it. not up to anything, matter of fact. right promptly after we moved everything in, i fell ill - kerplunk - with some kind of dread virus. last night everything escaped me in a blaze of vomitous glory. that's not supposed to happen to a woman of my mettle.

i am weak as a newborn kitten. i tried shoving a bookcase around the room just now and i am plumb tuckered out, though it may be in part due to my spongy, proteinless diet. since the dawn of my malaise (approx. wednesday) i have been subsisting on rice and toast. our acupuncturist - of course we share an acupuncturist, what kind of parlor trick do you think this is? - won't let me have fruit. not even juice. of course it's all i want. i who scorn o.j. (simpson and fresh-squeezed) on my better days would crawl on my hands and knees for a teacup of the pulpy farmstand-style good stuff right now.

what a nasty beginning for my internet diary: i moved house, then i got sick. here is the kind of sick i am. tune in again next time, folks. this could get real interesting.