Sitting at the little red-tabled-clothed table in my Wagen, I face the door. The door is open. Outside on the terrace Baby Pickles gurgles in her little seat, watching the trees and sucking on the ear of a beige rabbit. Katey Sleeveless is playing, and the day is starting, much to my surprise, with a feeling of completeness. Everything is in its place.
I’m in my Wagen this morning because I want to hang some shelves. But the boards are too long, I need a jigsaw, and the rest of the world is asleep. When the world wakes up, I will ask it for a jigsaw, someone will lend me one, and the work will continue.
Every year or so I reinvent my living space. It’s force of, not habit, but a decided anal retentiveness and a vague personalized feng shui. Moving things around sweeps out all of the old air, the old habits, the bad air, and makes room for new energy and events. Now, with the move to Frankfurt nearing, I’m re-imagining my Wagen as our family kitchen. For the last year the Beard and I have had separate kitchens: me, in my Wagen and him in a small Wagen known as the Spiesserkuche. Kitchens cause tension, we both do things so differently, but we’re at the point where attempting to come together around the stove again makes sense. So I’m hanging shelves.
One sideboard is already gone (a loan returned to its owner), I’m looking for a stove that can run on bottle gas, and the refrigerator that we’ve stored outside under a bush for the last year is coming inside. I can already see Pickles’ future drawings hanging on it. The bed will disppear (the mattress moving into Pickles’ Wagen) and be replaced by a larger table and chairs. I thrill at the thought. I will lose complete control over what has always been my own space, and because of it, it will gain so much more life.
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