It's been cold the past few days and with no heat, plumbing or electric, the cold seeps up through the bottom of my hammock. I line the sides with blankets and sleeping bags but my efforts are in vain. I know I should probably just shut the storm windows in my Harry Potter reminiscent room, but I keep forgetting when I should. The new house is big and empty, and I'm pretty sure the first floor is haunted but I don't mind. It's beautiful, and everyone in Braddock says when I show it to them “Oh wow, you got that one?” The Occupiers and I agree, Steinbeck would be proud.
I roll around in my hammock thinking on the adventure that my move here has been. I've already made a Facebook post stating that I like it here and have decided to stay. In September I had crash landed from California, spectacularly traumatized and an aspiring alcoholic (not to say that the latter fact has changed), grieving the loss of my childhood guitar, among other things. Since then I have become the joint owner of 3 houses and sole owner of numerous plots of land, and have acquired a small town reputation as “the zoo lady”. I have to watch my mouth these days because the kids in town flock around me when I'm walking Brooklyn, asking if they can come see my pets. Its a strange kind of life, built around simple, rustic acquisitions. I guess I am adjusting, after all.