November 3rd, 2008

emily

Landed

I'm sitting in my upstairs bathroom right now because I get an excellent signal from my neighbors' wireless up here. Our internet gets installed tomorrow.

I have taken a bath in my new (pink) bath-tub. The walls of the bathroom are green. The tub and sink are pink. Hm.

We passed Amherst and Walden on the way up. Emily and Henry. The leaves were amazing, and the bridge crossing into Maine...no Technicolor film was ever so bright.

I am going to make a big photo post shortly, but I did want to say I'm here, a small ceramic wastebasket was sacrificed to the gods of moving but nothing else was damaged in the trip, the leaves are lovely and the island is wonderful--there is even a bar that is having an election night party and the bartender's name is Hutch and he rode his bike by the house to give us the number of some guys who could help us move the piano. Everyone is friendly. There is Ocean. The dogs think this is the greatest place ever and Grimmy informs the neighborhood hourly that she is the Boss of It.

It is SOOOO quiet at night. And so dark. It's like there's no one here at all. I wonder what it's like in the summer, with all the tourists.

The house, like any rental, has things I love (HUGE wraparound porch, adorable living room with stained glass in the windows, formal dining room, hardwood floors downstairs, a little windowseat in the guest room that makes me feel like a princess in a tower, our awesome enormous yard with witchy gnarled trees) and things I don't (kitchen floor is old and ugly, there is some rust on one of the kitchen cabinets, previous tenants did not clean the house and there are a few pieces of the landlord's furniture inexplicably still here keeping us from getting all our stuff in, also the upstairs scares me and makes me feel like we're the young, idealistic couple in a Stephen King novel--there is a scary closet full of old stuff and none of the other closets' doorknobs work, also there is a dirt basement where bodies are CLEARLY being hidden. I will never, ever go down there. If we could get a rod-and-curtain to put over the door so I don't have to see it or think about it, I would be much put at ease.)

An old man wandered by today and informed me that everyone moves out of this house because the oil to heat it is so expensive. We cannot get our wood pellet stove (or our washer and dryer) soon enough. However, I suspect that with the stove and two or three space heaters, we could avoid using the oil at all.

We've named the house Proxima Thule, and I think I will love it once we are settled into it, but I am having hourly panic attacks revolving around: we'll never get it all unpacked, we'll never be happy, oh god, what did I do, we've no friends here, we left everything, this house I picked off of Craigslist is weird and the headless St. Francis statue in that closet is totally going to eat me in the night, I know it.

So, surviving, but oh the angst. I've been striving to move for more than a year and now that it's happened I'm half-paralyzed with worry. But, on the other hand, I have eaten lobster bisque and clam chowder and pumpkin beer. Is good. Is cold here. I now see that chowder is not cuisine, but an important New England survival tool.

We have to go into town to return the moving truck and do grocery shopping tomorrow. I'm not totally sure how we will get everything home from the dock, as we really ought to leave our car in its parking space on the mainland when we come back. My island life, let me show you it.

I wish someone on the island had an LJ. I wish I had the fairies from Sleeping Beauty to make this place instantly seem homey and cozy rather than terrifying. I know I will be glad we came in a week or two, but right now I feel small and exiled.

Mewsigh.

For future reference, my address is now:

92 Central Ave
Peaks Island, ME 04108

Cell remains the same.

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    scared scared