The Crow (how odd to refer to my alter ego self in the third person) has returned to the nest. Internet access was restored this morning. I feel like I've been isolated while molting and now, full-feathered again, I can fly freely once more.
Yet...
Yet, I feel something is amiss. This feeling is predictable, since we humans resist change, even change for the better, or one for which we have yearned a good while. The walk to a computer I use today is far shorter than a few days ago, but not nearly so interesting. I know the layout of my home better than the back of my hand. There is nothing interesting about the basket of clean laundry waiting to be folded, or the jumble of art supplies in need of a good sorting, or the dishes from breakfast lallygagging in the sink. I thought surely they'd have washed themselves by now. Must I do everything in this house? Oh. I guess I must, mustn't I?
I did brew some Peruvian coffee this morning, a gift from my last visit to the food bank. Quite good, actually, but not the high-end stuff at the library. On the other hand, I did bring a cup of it to the office, where I set it precariously atop the hard-drive tower while I cleared a spot for it next to the keyboard. Wouldn't have been allowed such a risky indulgence at good old Guthrie Memorial.
The early morning light streamed into the back room (office) through sheer tan curtains, not the spectacularly colored bits of glass that make up the Aristotle window. Against light tan walls, the light was monotone, almost dreary. Except that it was light, in all its glory, and I was alive to see it, so I can forgive its flatness.
The only chatter I heard came from two squirrels in the dogwood outside the back door, scolding a blue jay about something. Probably because the bird was bathing in their drinking water. Little do they know that's not all the birds do in their basin.
There were no quirky neighbors at the desk, no gigglers, nose-miners, nor grunters. No social butterfly who used her computer time to take phone calls and text her numerous friends, all the while posting to a variety of social media platforms. Now that's multi-tasking, folks, to the max!
Quiet is the sound I hear. Broken only by the sound of keys being struck as I type this post.
Too quiet. At least, it is this morning.
I see there will be a period of adjustment to get through, this being alone with my own computer, in my own library (of sorts), listening to only my thoughts.
If only I can ignore the bossy squirrels.
11 comments:
After so long in apartments, I adore the quiet, the solitude. Although it took me several months not to feel anxious about squeaky floors - that I was disturbing people downstairs.
I like living alone, Zhoen, and I'll readjust to the quiet when blogging real quick. I did encounter some interesting people, though.
My old house makes lovely squeaks, too. The staircase to the second floor is hung slightly askew, so that when I step on a certain board on the first floor, it causes a board on the second floor landing to squeak. It took me almost 5 years to figure out the connection, but it was so spooky until I did.
Oh come on, Crow.
Folded laundry, The sequence it's washed in (Lucy paraded mock horror that I should do my pants and tea towels in the same wash). How do you ensure the shirt sleeves eventually fold into part of a rectangle instead of a raggedy mass. Are you anal in ensuring all the folded items reduce down to the same size of rectangle - and what does this say about your psychologically. Your laundry basket: basketwork (all sorts of historical implications) or plastic (cheaper but it gradually distintegrates), The smell of laundry dried on an outdoor line vs. that dried indoors. Conditioner: yes or no. The sneaking feeling that certain items didn't really need washing. Hilarious anecdotes about coloured dye transferring to your whites. Something equivalent to the fact that my mother-in-law used to regularly wash and hang out a pair of men's PJs because she was ashamed that her hubbie slept in the buff.
As to art supplies. I mean the mind boggles, all the way up to Rembrandt.
Writing's an act of imagination not the mere recording of people and events handed it to you on a plate. Quirky neighbours are a gift; a pile of undies radiate out a million possibilities. Quiet? Don't grumble about it, profit from it.
You don't need interesting people - you're interesting yourself for Pete's sake. Go for it, Crow.
I'm glad you'll perhaps post more frequently, Martha. Missed your comments.
Got back from Seattle yesterday, Kate's youngest had her surgery for her omphalocele, it went very well, you'd never know she had major surgery to see her dart around getting into things.
Take care,
Mike
I'm going to miss those other people in the library, too, but you're doing rather well with the squirrels and the birds. What those squirrels don't know can't hurt them.
Change always does require an adjustment period. Between the two, I think I'd much prefer to use my own computer in my own home than to use the public computer bank at the library. I guess because I've seen some of the characters that use the computers at our library, it makes me prefer the privacy of my own home. Glad to hear you are back! :)
As someone who hasn't watched television in more than twelve years I still can't say with any honesty I'm not hooked to having my internet available whenever I get the urge to look.
The change may take a little getting used to but you know the library bank is there should you need the entertainment. Meanwhile, I'm sure it's nice that you can check your email while wearing your pyjamas.
I'm glad to read of you back in your quiet (squirrels excepted) surroundings. You sound relaxed and comfortable. I liked the posts from the library, but the home ones give you more time to contemplate things like self-washing dishes.
Welcome back home, Martha! No excuses for not blogging now! - Which can sometimes be very frightening; the ghastly, challenging sight of the empty page, er, screen, and no distractions to blame for not doing what you meant to do! :-)
Welcome home, Crow. It's good to have you back.
Glad to know you have computer access again at home. The silence must be rich and the sounds that interrupt it richer. Squirrels and jays should be good neighbours. But that spider! I know how you hate them.
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