Move it or lose it, Toots.

Fuckadoodledoo.

My landlord just gave me notice.

I gotta move outta my beloved abode afore the next solstice. Four years in, I could feel this day approaching – fast and furious like the errant arse of Vin Diesel. Yessireebobtail I’ve dreaded it. Now it’s nigh and, well. I’m gutted. Just quietly.

My life is imploding with songlike synchronicity. Either that or a Phoenix cannot burn in part, if it’s to be reborn in full.

Let’s go with the latter, eh. Optimism is sanity for me right now. And whilst this is indeed spurious news (of bastard origins), I can’t help but call its timing predictably prescient. For this flat is the only true anchor I own to my soon-to-be-former life; the only habit urging me to make money enough to support it.

A man’s home is his castle, and a wuc’s abode is her equalizer. In years past, I’ve amassed art from Vietnam ‘n’ Cambodia, riches from Morocco ‘n’ Peru, and treasures from Europe’s teeming troves. Layer upon layer of connoisseur ‘n’ quirk until my home became a Wuccan cave of wonderment – a place where I could look in any direction and be visually sated. It’s the first real home I’ve had in adulthood. The first place I planted feet after years of travel and fucked up flatshares. And, like one’s first love, I have held it apart from all that went before it in delight and revelry.

Not to wax lyrical, yo. But you could say its been a dear friend, supportive and steady throughout many a harem of hardship. (A friend I paid $360 bucks a week for the privilege, but still.) As my sole sanctuary from copious compromises laden in my latent life – it has kept my candle of hope alive against wayward winds and usurping upswells. And somehow, throughout, I have managed to afford this choice champion. Just.

Slowly but surely, like the breasts of Jessica Simpson, the rent has risen biannually. And I have held on for dear life, like the boulder holder whose cups cannot stay the mounting mammilla. I lived in fear of the next inevitable increase (as I’m sure does JS) but turns out, there’s more than one way to snap the strap of the most bold of boulder holders, my friends.

Nothing for it but to suck it up and ride the realistic wave.

And so my endeavor becomes double decker: to find a new home and career within the month whilst staying the stink of inner ‘n’ outer beasts (and how many there are). Feels much like learning to walk whilst planning a Himalayan hike – ill timed yet undoubtably possible (in an after-school special kinda way).

In the kindtime, I’m (re)discovering that tackling Sydney’s housing market is akin to tackling my caustically Christian grandmo’ at the height of her regime.

The meek need not apply.

Nor need logic, for that matter.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

26 Responses to “Move it or lose it, Toots.”

  1. I liked this because you write about it so well, not because you’re losing something (someplace) you care about. Maybe a more affordable writing cave will make life even better for you -good luck, I hope you find something great (and quickly)!

    • This is awesome, thanks Penny. I would gladly write well over holding onto a place that decides to let me go, no question. You’re dead right – there must be a more affordable cave out there just waiting for my pen and zen to make it whole.

  2. When one door closes another truly does open. Best wishes on the next chapter of your journey!

  3. I like the Phoenix reference. Just imagine what you will be able to create as your new home. Best wishes dealing with everything and keep your amazing sense of humour. (Have you ever considered writing satire for television or movies….. I think you should get an agent or something like that and promote yourself.)

    • Wow, thanks Freedom. Writing satire for movies and TV is exactly what I want to do. What I hanker for! Which makes your comment a little ray of hope in the House of Hopes I’m currently constructing. Fist bump of honour, yo.

  4. I can relate; optimism is not only sane, but smart and apropos. They shot my job dead twice in the last decade, but they didn’t account for my distant relationship to one Dr. Frank ‘n’ various Steins. Twice I revived the corpse. So shall you; so shall you (a shall for both decks).

    Trust yourself, dear wuc. Yer too smart to fail or be wasted. You will land on your feet and gather ye yet more riches, art and treasures. Things just might be a little “interesting” for a while. Consider it one of life’s adventures.

    Props and supports!

    (“Boulder holders”…. that’s good! Lovin’ the language!)

    • Bless you Smitty, this means a lot! Right back at your apropos, yo. I could see myself landing on my feet, as quickly I read the words you disposed to bestow. Thanks thanks daddio.

  5. I learned very early in life that the absolute worst thing can happen to you and you will get past it and you will be happy again. – Chuck Close

  6. the more shit you have to wear, the more stuff you can write about .. that’s how it works, wuc

  7. I’m sending an invisible beam of sympathy. Been hassled by landlords to leave long after the city turned the lights out. In the end I had to creep away with a selection of my favourite belongings in my friend’s car. Taking unnecessary twists and turns through the neighbourhood in case that a paranoid delusion was, in fact, true. Hold fast, Godspeed.

    • Crumbsies and thanks much Ranna – I swear I can see that invisible beam! If it’s any consolation, your stealthy exit of times past sounds tres Jason Bournean. If you’re gonna make your escape under the cover of night and poetry, I can think of no greater parallel my friend.

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