movement

Anticipating change is, for me, worse than the actual act of change. As I sit here on my balcony that period of change has begun to begin: tonight is my first night alone in the apartment, most probably the first of many to come. This isn't the first time I've spent a first night alone in an apartment I've only shared with someone with whom I spend nearly all of my time. And yet the first night is always as bad as all of the previous first nights. Like times past, the first thing I did when I walked in was apply the dead bolt to the door. Why? I have no idea. Especially considering it was only 5 pm, sun still ablaze and Morris wide awake and meowing for food. And again, retracing steps from years ago, I paced around the apartment, unmotivated to perform the household tasks I usually carry out with satisfaction. The cat needed to be fed, the laundry required folding, the dishes stacked since last night's dinner begged to be done. Chores performed without the usual cheer, followed by incessant refreshing of my gmail page (someone must have emailed me today?) and then an attempt at some newspaper reading.

After hours of fidgety dissatisfaction I am at last nestled into one of the two bamboo chairs on the balcony overlooking the ongoing insanity of the bus stop, poised to begin season three of Weeds.

It will be better tomorrow.