the other house is gone now, for me anyway.  we have moved, several blocks only, and yet a world or something, and also nowhere at all.  it both matters and doesn't matter where one is: how is that?  we are both here and not is how that is.  what is here?  where is it?  now now now.  the dog cried for two days then settled.  a big german shepherd baby - i like him very much, he's a good friend, and i'll miss him when he's gone, if he's gone before me.  one of the cats is still making a nightlong journey to the other house, the left behind house, the poor monster, and yet i'm like him a little: where will i do this stuff of putting some words into a blank document, casting some consciousness in some light or dark, where will i sit when i sit, what wall will i stare at for hours (which is a thing i do).  my wife is better at being and doing than i am, nothing to say beyond that - she was here the day we were here.  after some time, i don't know how much, wherever one has been is no longer where one has been, and the only place is the place one is in.  don't be fooled: we like to believe that our pasts are with us, and they are, but only as long as we let them be.  we help make our traps, set them for ourselves.  the worst kind of story is that kind with the proper freudian flashback that explains everything.  even worse: believing in that shit in one's life.  the past is always with us some movie says and not done with us; somebody else says it's like some wound that'll never heal - i say it's just the debris of our life, like the bag of old clothes i gave away, the old pots and pans, those used but not finished shoes, the things we don't want to lose but also just things to be let go of, no other way.