Moving Day...Sort Of

Today begins stage 1.3 of the creation of our commune on Collyer Street. I missed the 60s, but certainly over-enjoyed the 70s for a while, and I remember the communes and cults that were driving the mainstream culture crazy. Most communes never worked out. Too much pot, lazy guys, and hippie chicks who stepped right into the roles they thought they despised: cooking, cleaning, trying to find money, and having babies. The Farm in Tennessee seems to be the main success story and is still in operation today. They consider themselves to be an "intentional community" with like-mindedness and hard work as important factors. Drop City is a good book about a commune that was fairly typical in its dysfunction and it's a fun read. The memoirs written by the children born into communes are making their appearance these days. Okay reading but predictable. I'm joking when I call our new, and temporary, setup a commune. It's really a dictatorship, and I'm the captain. But I'm a nice captain. I was taught to be warm and huggy at grandmother camp. I can now say, "There, there, Sweetie" at a vocal register deeper than normal so that it sounds like a purr. You get some finesse if you go to camp.

So, the work continues. I love change even though it comes at a price, both monetary and physical. Life isn't supposed to be static, although many people love predictability and a daily routine. I like stability, and that's not the same thing as predicability. Routine is helpful, especially as a tool for aging.

I have to get busy. It's going to be another beautiful day in a beautiful week. We could be trying to get all of this moving stuff done in three-feet of snow, but we're lucky this time.

The saga continues.

Life is good when a friend brings you pie.