I’m not putting up the Christmas tree this year. It’s in storage at my parents’ house, and my roommate’s cat is apparently a climber anyway, and… it just doesn’t feel like the place we live is “home” enough to really undertake seasonal decorating.
It’s been a rough six months at the Satellite of Love. We went from two healthy full-time paychecks to two part-time paychecks, and from jobs that were stressful but tolerable to jobs that are just stressful. We’re both in relationship limbo to varying degrees. The cats still hate each other and can’t be allowed to interact lest blood be shed. We’ve never hung any art on the walls in the living room, and one corner of the living room has turned into de facto open storage.
My bedroom feels like home, at least. Warm, dark lighting, textures in linen and fur, colors in fawn and rose and sky, burnished brass and dark walnut. Although my financial situation and the nature of renting in a high-rise didn’t allow me to go quite as far as I’d like making the place special, it’s enough to seem like a real place where I really live. Wherever I wind up next, the current contents of my bedroom constitute the belongings I want to live amongst.
But it feels like a holding pattern. And that makes sense: this was meant to be a time for me to recover myself and my life. I guess I’m a little impatient with that process. And the line from Grosse Point Blank, as the lonely assassin eyes a stable suburban existence with equal parts longing and dread, keeps coming to mind: “I’ve always felt very temporary about myself.” Of course, being now substantially older than Martin was in the film (which is a terrifying thought), I have learned the hard way what a temporary thing stability really is. Like many things in life I’ll never have, though, it will never stop feeling like it’s only just beyond my grasp.
“Everybody’s coming back into town to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone.”