Oh, how I want to go home.
The house is clean. I’ve got a sweater to knit and tons of movies to watch while knitting it.
I moved the wrapping paper out of my bedroom and suddenly it feels like its five times bigger.
I’ve got projects! I’ve got stuff to do!
Still reading the Goldfinch. Is it possible to read this book without being squeezed about the heart by anxiety? I’m going to make myself finish, but now I have skipped ahead (not so easy on a kindle, which is a problem) and just read this:
The resulting tableau on the carpet (Emerald City, green wellies, Ozama’s color) was almost as as if I’d stumbled on a haiku or some other perfect combination of words to explain to her what she was to me. For a moment I stood in perfect stillness — ticking clock, submerged memories from childhood, doors opening to bright old daydreams where we walked together on summer lawns — before, resolutely, going back to my room for the necklace which had called to me in an auction house showroom with her name: lifting it from its midnight velvet box and, carefully, draping it over one of the boots so a splash of gold caught the light. It was topaz, eighteenth century, girandole with diamond bow and huge, clear, honey-colored stones: just the shade of her eyes. As I turned away, averting my gaze from the wall of her photos opposite, and hurried down the stairs, it was almost with the old childhood terror and exhilaration of having thrown a rock through a window. Hobie would know exactly how much the necklace had cost. But by the time Pippa found it, and the note, I would be long gone.
Lovely, I think, although possibly also sort of Anthropologie-ish, no? Hmm.