Transplantation
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjASon7ih0t9yrpconTPM4SPIbTQ0nqgHZmgUJZUCq8iMB9GjA3RQciwUZpFP26EpRv4OOImXT2kdccAOsxY3hS1mgoH7wcPvrNYeAcBXu057yZ1Y0XxKL7XX2vvL3hSzx2UnxthepNc/s320/first_transplant_200w.jpg)
Baltimore, so familiar and so unfamiliar. Charming and charmless. I knock the holes, the pegs until we rattle together again, a rebuilt jalopy, tenuous contacts sparking
enough to get us through the winter.
It's going to be a tough first day, but I will get through. Even this keyboard feels wrong. But soda tastes good again. Everything will begin to taste like itself again, or I will get used to its taste.
I finished The Tide King in the two weeks I was at Hambidge and also wrote 50 pages of a new novel, Rabbits Singing. I guess I should feel successful, but I am incomplete in some way. I am here, home, waiting for the transplantation to take.