Checks and Balances
The checks arrived the other day, from the bank. Checks imprinted with my address, checks of permanence.
And then there was the appointment to have my hair dids. Three hours of sussing out, worrying under all those fucking foils, to come out not quite J perfectly blonde, but a happy enough approximation. I left after three hours, under a low slung yellowed moon, totally famished, thinking, surely I must live here now.
It's a peculiar sentiment that's been dogging me for days now, surley I must live here now. I've got a stylist, I've got an appointment for six weeks hence. Realistically I suspect that bolting is not an option, what with the mortgage and all that, but somehow services make it more routine, and therefore less abstract.
Yesterday I was homesick, quite desperately so.
Today I went through a grueling four hour interview. I'd like to think that I nailed it, but, what with all the fucking interviewing I have been doing, I am inclined to be circumspect.
Except for wanting it all and wanting it all right now.
As to writing, I have little inclination to do so, and I am not quite sure why that is, part of me would like to chalk it up to the newness coming fast and furious, unable and unwilling to parse all of these new experiences, part of it is being a bit wary of just how much I should write about -- in SF I had the tacit consent from most of the people I was writing of.
I am a little suspicious that the muse has up and left in favor of the furniture whore.
It's probably, mostly because I can't succinctly or even lend any lovely, lovely words to the tremendous oddity of of the passage of days and nights since September 15, 2007, which was, you may not remember, the day I gave up my pretty awesome job, and with that quit fifteen years of familiarity in favor, in favor of what, in favor of the notion of change, and a quick prayer that the fickle gods of serendipity might lean a little in my favor. Of course they do, just never in the trajectory that you prepared for.
In my case, as I should have guessed, it's backwards. Get the house without a job, bust your ass, half-assedly, things work out for the best.
These last months have been a lesson in stoicism, I'd like to think that I am passing with apomb, I am oddly resigned, still proactive, determined to sputter along, like the little engine that could, things happen, employers don't want you, you navigate social circles like sputnik, you forge allegiances, you think you might be nearly ready to expose your tender parts to a partner, and then in a fit of furniture buying pique, you retract, you retract.
It's late and I am totally knackered.
The checks arrived the other day, from the bank. Checks imprinted with my address, checks of permanence.
And then there was the appointment to have my hair dids. Three hours of sussing out, worrying under all those fucking foils, to come out not quite J perfectly blonde, but a happy enough approximation. I left after three hours, under a low slung yellowed moon, totally famished, thinking, surely I must live here now.
It's a peculiar sentiment that's been dogging me for days now, surley I must live here now. I've got a stylist, I've got an appointment for six weeks hence. Realistically I suspect that bolting is not an option, what with the mortgage and all that, but somehow services make it more routine, and therefore less abstract.
Yesterday I was homesick, quite desperately so.
Today I went through a grueling four hour interview. I'd like to think that I nailed it, but, what with all the fucking interviewing I have been doing, I am inclined to be circumspect.
Except for wanting it all and wanting it all right now.
As to writing, I have little inclination to do so, and I am not quite sure why that is, part of me would like to chalk it up to the newness coming fast and furious, unable and unwilling to parse all of these new experiences, part of it is being a bit wary of just how much I should write about -- in SF I had the tacit consent from most of the people I was writing of.
I am a little suspicious that the muse has up and left in favor of the furniture whore.
It's probably, mostly because I can't succinctly or even lend any lovely, lovely words to the tremendous oddity of of the passage of days and nights since September 15, 2007, which was, you may not remember, the day I gave up my pretty awesome job, and with that quit fifteen years of familiarity in favor, in favor of what, in favor of the notion of change, and a quick prayer that the fickle gods of serendipity might lean a little in my favor. Of course they do, just never in the trajectory that you prepared for.
In my case, as I should have guessed, it's backwards. Get the house without a job, bust your ass, half-assedly, things work out for the best.
These last months have been a lesson in stoicism, I'd like to think that I am passing with apomb, I am oddly resigned, still proactive, determined to sputter along, like the little engine that could, things happen, employers don't want you, you navigate social circles like sputnik, you forge allegiances, you think you might be nearly ready to expose your tender parts to a partner, and then in a fit of furniture buying pique, you retract, you retract.
It's late and I am totally knackered.
posted by emma at
12:49 AM
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