No.

There is still no update to Not Providence this week; the Movebeast is still firmly entrenched in between my shoulder blades, demanding my attention and my time. The bulk of the deconstructive work is done, but we are not quite to that delightful point where all that is left is the rebuilding effort; and as such, it is hard for me to get into my usual routines, writing among them.

And I don't mind saying, it's been difficult. Not writing, to wax cliche, is like not breathing, not sleeping, not coming up for air; like some basic, primal need inside me is not being met. It feels like my life is treading mud.

The entire disruption to my routine has been like this. I've been working, hauling, guiding, thinking, placing, a thousand other verbs, and none of them sound like "rest". I don't have a new routine fully worked out, and by definition sort of can't—most things involving the new house are things I have only done once, maybe twice, and plenty more things are not in place for me to have any kind of habit (like the fact that I will not, in fact, be navigating around a sideways length of bookshelf every time I walk through the middle of my living room). As I suspected, it has not been the easiest thing to deal with; I have arguably been at my worst the past week or so, and my loved ones have born the brunt of it, which is not really how I like to be.

But, there have to be bright sides. My loved ones still love me, after all, and I've been forgiven my screaming and my snaps. The main part of the move is over now. This weekend is the final push, the last load, and this week is the emptying of boxes. And come Friday there's my birthday to celebrate, even if I'm celebrating it with cleaning; and next week I just have to pick up little pieces, and then the saga of the Granada Street house will end.

And then, oh my readers; and then, how I will write.