I’ve been far too attached to my email lately, checking it every hour, waiting for news, reports, answers, without anything specific in mind. It’s like a mindless, free-floating watch, waiting for a tap on the shoulder to push me forward. Not that I can’t do something: try for a grant; apply for a job. Deadlines loom, but the largest one is my anticipated move to my new home.
I imagine what the new place looks like; I am renting it sight unseen. I troll the real estate ads for a glimpse of a place similar to the one that will be mine, look at the layouts, wonder if I’ll have a place to garden. Could I plant a topiary in a container in the spring? I should use my daydreams more wisely, that is, if that were not an oxymoronic thought in itself. I might dream of writing surfaces, fresh paper, new pens. This is what the fall has always meant to me. Instead I peruse on-line catalogs, looking for a decadent armchair at a fraction of the going price. I make lists of things to bring, things to buy. I decide I will live an organic, sustainable life without too many things. I wonder if I could get an armchair with down-filled cushions. I decide to become vegan. I decide to remain vegetarian. I resolve to practice more yoga. I wonder what I will plant in the spring.