Home is where the bruschetta and clover honey is

Gurrh. I'm in a lousy mood, and I don't really feel like posting, but I don't really have anything else to do at the moment, and I'm overdue, so I might as well.

The pain of moving is over, by and large, and I now officially no longer live in Boston. After three days of sorting and packing and deciding what constitutes the disposable part of my previous life and what remains as the material (or materialist) extension of me, and another three days of a hell-bent driving tour of the Midwest (Boston to Dallas via my sister's place in Chicago), and another three days (or four, perhaps -- a major effect of all this relocation is that time has gotten badly melty on me) of a) Panic and Dread, of both the existential and concretely manifest kinds, and b) the resulting infantile, almost pre-social, hermitism -- after all of this, I say, I am here, in Dallas, at Home.

Not really home, though. I feel guilty saying it, but it's not. This isn't the house I grew up in, it isn't my house. Dad moved out of that one after my sister left for college. A lot of the stuff in it is the same, or rather, it's stuff I recognize, but it's not the same. The chairs congregate differently; they've formed new alliances now. The sideboard, the couch, the piano, are all different somehow, like they all came out or were born again or something while I was gone. There's no dog. I never liked the dog, but her presence was an anchor, and her absence is not entirely welcome. It's unsettlingly like a dream, the kind that takes place at "home" -- not real home, but some strange, semi-familiar house playing the role of home. But what bothers me most is that I'm treating it like it's sudden and jarring, when I know full well that it's not and it's just me, jangled and stressy.

Dad's still here, of course, and that makes up for a lot. He's been pretty game about driving me around for my errands, and he's still the modest genius of the kitchen. I was happy to discover the refrigerator is as eccentric as always -- no cold cuts or apples or leftover barbecued chicken; instead there are chunks of parmesan cheese, bottles of pesto, and today, no less than three jars of capers. Fortunately, there is bread, so as long as you keep an open mind about the definition of a sandwich, there's usually something for lunch.

Gosh, speaking of which. No more depressive rambling today, I'm hungry. Sorry about not actually getting around to a point. These days aren't lending themselves well to conclusions, I'm afraid. Oh well. Nothing that can't be fixed with a Gruyere-and-olive-tapenade melt. And capers. We need to use up those capers.