So! Here I am again, plotting another long blog about how I don’t blog often enough. Blargh.
But maybe the timing’s right enough, since one of my scant entries these last few months regarded the approaching summer, and today we find ourselves in anticipation of the first real day of fall: Sunday’s high is so far projected at 77, and that? Is glorious.
Yea, though it’s been a long, hot—and excruciatingly so—summer, whose torrents came only recently (but with all the fervor of making up for lost rain), it has, to say the least, passed.
I’m now well settled in at my new place, a former WWII barracks building with high windows and crooked, creaking floors, surrounded by lush greenery and now christened the Banana Pad. I sleep on a loft, reminiscent of college nights with the ceiling within reach. But CJ likes high spaces, and I like the saved space, short commute and central location with still reassuring isolation.
These are not all the makings of a new chapter, by far, but a perhaps decent-size turn in a two-year-old life transition, now marked by a bold new tattoo that’s yet to inspire even a trace of regret. Which, let’s face it, is surprising for neurotic me.
For the moment, it’s Friday, and I’m basking in the last remnants of satisfaction from completed assignments (including a craft beer story of which I’m very proud) while not quite obligated to stress about upcoming deadlines. I’ve got just enough of a cold to crush my ambition without doing similar things to my spirit, plus some mood-enhancing cold medicine and a blank slate of a lovely-weathered weekend ahead of me.
Just as summer turns things inward, hopefully fall will turn me outward again, and I’ll find more entertaining material for here. In the meantime, I’m just trying to strike while the Hammer’s hot.