At The Apartment
I'm skipping the Veterans Day parade in San Francisco. I spent most of yesterday rearranging my work area here at the apartment, moving my computer to a smaller table I'd been using for the printers so that now I can look out over the living room beyond the monitor rather than facing the back wall beside the kitchen, a one hundred eighty degree turn that feels more comfortable. Similar to the arrangement at the old apartment. The hollow core door sitting on top of two two-drawer file cabinets is now behind me with the printers. The sliding balcony door is to my right and I can glance out across the street to the dirty white apartment building with the tightly curtained windows. High living, here in Oakland.
Thought some more about not going to Portland for Thanksgiving. Up and down, up and down, you understand, expounding on any given day on whatever has me in a snit for that moment. "Here a snit, there a snit, everywhere a snit! snit!" An idea comes, like last Friday's at noon, drinking brandy with veterans at the office, and come writing time it goes butt over backwards into an entire philosophy of existence. Hi, ho. They say you learn things about yourself writing a journal, most of them, I think, things I'd rather not know.
It rained last night, although the sun was poking through this morning, so I was able to walk over to my cafe and have breakfast without more than the occasional glance at the clouds. A day to get things done, a rainy day, and yes, I did get things done, but one lonely thing at a time. Three loads of laundry, two or three more boxes unpacked, next year's health plan options selected and punched into the computer, a "what I gotta do tomorrow or I will die" list written down on a scrap of paper that I will undoubtedly misplace before I drive into work in the morning. I have a hundred sheets of photo paper arriving tomorrow and I might actually drop off a pair of shoes to have them resoled, so I need the car, right? Later tonight I might fill out some change of address cards, only two or three weeks late. These things are happening, but boy, oh boy, do they happen slowly, each one at its own pace on its own time. Is it just me? I wonder.
My public radio and news program addiction is totally crazy for these times. You can only listen to so many "grab your ass, they're coming to kill us" warnings before you need to, you know, take a respite. Like driving up to Oregon, but maybe way back up into the hills of Oregon or the mountains of Oregon or the volcanos of Oregon where its safe to hide out. I promised a friend I'd bring a wok and the necessary ingredients for stir fry this trip, so they're on my scribbled to do list. Stir fry ingredients. I have most of them in the cupboard, but they've been there for what might be generously described as "a while". Better to buy fresh ones, put together a practice stir fry or two here at the apartment before I set out.