Rosy-fingered unpacking.

Once I studied Homer. It was nice. My favourite sumptuous, gentle line in just about the whole Odyssey was anything to do with rosy-fingered Dawn, ibid...
Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Telemachus rose and dressed himself. He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, girded his sword about his shoulder, and left his room looking like an immortal god.

So, I met Dawn last night. The previous tenant did her final packing of kitchen stuff and other bits of her that had prevented me from stretching my legs into the new place. I had stopped in a weird non-home space while I waited (patiently) for bits and pieces to be cleared, sublets to move out and the place to be finally empty and finally mine. A second after the door closed to the outside, I sliced open the first of few boxes and began the process of unwrapping many, many well-wrapped pressies, all with my name on them.

It's not that i'd forgotten what I had, I just hadn't seen everything for a while. I made my bed with my sheets. I unrolled my rugs. I unwrapped my erbs and spices and pepper and salt. I only broke one of my bits -- unfortunately for me it happened to be one of my favourite glasses, old and bought whilst road tripping in Oregon. Luckily, it has a twin sister, who will now be forced to feel that mysterious loss that only a twin understands.

Although I didn't quite leave this morning feeling like an immortal god, it was very relaxing to spend the evening pissing in the proverbial corner. Now I just have to see about the extensive renovations.