I just moved last week about five miles north within Oakland, from a down-at-heel industrial area stocked with artists and poor families barricaded behind six-foot iron fences to a suburban neighborhood filled with flowers and neat old cars. It’s quite a change, I tell ya. I’ve gone from zero corner bars to five (one’s even a piano bar!) and I’m down the street from a beautiful old theater, and a mile and a half from the Parkway, a second-run theater with beer and pizza and couches! This feels a lot like the neighborhood where I grew up, but better. It’s friendly and safe in a way that triggers all my white guilt for liking it so much. And none of it smells like piss!
Then again, I’m not sure how much yarn I need, since my yarn and fabric stash took up two medium-sized, three-cubic-foot moving boxes, and my clothes only took up four, and maybe a third of my closet will go to storing stash. It may not sound like a lot, but for a wannabe minimalist, it’s hard to justify. At least it’s nowhere near as bad as my t-shirt problem: 60 and counting, and three more just showed up today. Yikes.