notes on moving
liminality and change
Can anyone really get used to change? Even if we resign ourselves to its inevitability, the changes we face are never the same. The seasons shift in different ways each year, the flowers bloom in slightly different shades, the strawberries vary in tartness. And we try to adapt.
After a couple of months living in a sublease, I finally moved into an apartment that I'm on the lease for in New York City. Maybe this makes me a real resident of this city.
Even though it's spring now, the cold creeps back here and there — the sun shirks away from the world occasionally, and I want to do the same.
My new furniture comes in pieces in flat boxes, and after reading some instructions and fiddling with some tools, I have a place to sit or to put my books. I live my life making things on a computer; making things with my hands is a bit of magic. It doesn't stop being exciting, even after the tenth box. A hundred years ago, maybe I would've had to buy these chairs and tables from a carpenter, with no options for the style of furniture or how they would fit into my bedroom or lifestyle. I order something that seems perfect for what I want, and somehow, it's simple to put together. There's thought put into each of these pieces of furniture, intention in the placement of screw holes, in the choice of fasteners to keep everything together. Even for the cheap stuff from IKEA, there's craftsmanship, and through this craftsmanship, freedom in flexibility.
Among the craftsmanship, there's the pain of packaging. Styrofoam is hell. Why are we still using it at this point? Many boxes come without it, while others maintain their use of this infernal material. It isn't recyclable, it always makes a mess, and it breaks with the sound of a bomb going off. It's white, more like ashes than snow.
I packed away most of my winter clothes in my closet on a hot day, thinking that I wouldn't need them anymore for the rest of the year. I didn't need jackets or sweaters anymore — after a certain amount of sweating, it's hard to imagine needing layers ever again. But that was the last hot day. It's been raining and chilly since. I forgot that change isn't always linear.
There are so many small decisions in a home: where the glasses go, where the shopping bags go, how to light the room nicely, how to lay out every section, what the best way to store shoes is. The list is unending. I wonder if I'm making the wrong decision at every turn. Will my new table ruin the flow of my bedroom? Will there be more clutter before there's order?
Inevitably, big questions of life start to appear as I try to set up my home: what do I need to live a good life? What type of person do I want my space to make me? What kind of life will I live here? Will buying a meditation cushion let me be free of my neurotic mind? Will a perfectly organized closet bring tidiness to my feelings, desires?
I love my new apartment — it's beautiful and spacious, but it's louder than expected. The noise of the street next to us wakes me up at night. I'm turned into an insomniac again, and in my unending wakefulness I brainstorm ways we can make car horns illegal. And cars without mufflers. And motorcycles. And emergency sirens past midnight. And subwoofers. In the morning, I'm still a bit angry.
The internet tells me to buy a white noise machine and earplugs, but also that I will probably get used to it. The human brain has an ability to adapt to new circumstances, they say. One person says they don't even hear the train that runs past their apartment anymore. No one says how long it takes. I order earplugs.
I watch videos of interior design influencers to gather inspiration for how my home could look and feel. It turns out nearly everyone in the world seems to have the same IKEA lamps, paper lanterns, wall calendars, and bed frames too close to the ground. Each video uses one of the same three songs, and every piece I like costs over a thousand dollars.
Will a lamp shaped like a mushroom save me? Will the orange light wash over me and make the gap between my barebones setup and a comfortable life feel smaller? It could be a straightforward improvement in the face of uncertainty. At least, that's what the influencer with the affiliate link would probably tell me.
None of the decisions I make are set in stone. I can sell the bedside table if it's too big. I can move my bed to any of the corners of my small room. I don't know if telling myself this makes anything feel any easier.
So far, I have a bed and a desk and some tables in my room. I'm missing wall decorations and books, a living room with a couch, and a lifestyle that doesn't involve breaking down half a dozen boxes every day. I'm excited by the possibilities still, but I miss the time before change. I ponder an imaginary milestone, some moment that will turn this mess into comfort. It will happen.
Then change will come again.
💧 Drops of the Week 💧
ALBUM - Last Leg of the Human Table by Cloakroom - great shoegaze album from a couple of months ago
POEM - “Short Lecture on Translation” by Mary Ruefle - What was the first known act of translation in the history of mankind?
"Will a lamp shaped like a mushroom save me?" I have often asked this
"every piece I like costs over a thousand dollars" is so relatable