ritualism

i think i've mentioned that i'm moving, but i don't know that i've mentioned that i'm moving beyond the reach of the ny times.

i didn't know this, of course, until yesterday. i was calling around to update my address (i always like to start with those publication-types as it takes them a few weeks to get the change in the system), and i was informed by the ny times that they don't deliver to my new address. and whilst that might not seem like much more than a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, i started bawling.

it might be easy to blame the breakdown on all the craziness i've been through the past coupla weeks, that maybe i just needed a straw to break the tear dam, but i think it's more than that. since i've been on my own, the ny times has been on my stoop every sunday morning, whether rain or shine, los angeles or washington, here or there or anywhere. i look the whole week forward to my sunday mornings with my coffee, meet the press, and my ny times.

i love the way the paper smells, the way i feel pulling it apart and lining up the sections in the order i'll read (starting _always_ with the 'week in review'), the smudges it leaves on my hands, and that distinct weight, shape, and feel of the ny times. i have even grown fond of battling the damn thing when it won't turn pages as i'd like.

and even though i don't always get through the whole paper, there's just something about that piece of my sunday morning ritual i'm not ready to let go of.

~k

p.s. my fiance hasn't given up. and neither have i.