Jiminy

My office is, more or less, moved in.

Note I did not say ‘complete’ up there. That would be a vicious fabrication. The floor is bare, a success in itself. My bookshelves are full, their contents more or less arranged but not guaranteed to stay where they are. The 3×3 student-style shelf is full of stuff … not sure if it’s the stuff that needs to be there or not. Since it’s near the desk, I’m trying to keep it for items that I am most likely to use on a regular basis. But I have two bins of other stuff, innumerable pens, pencils, markers, doodads, and the like. They used to live in containers hung off a rod that was drilled into the wall. I don’t want to do that in here, not yet at least. The plan is still going forward to get the iMac for the desktop. No point in drilling a bunch of holes in the wall that I’m not going to end up needing.

But is it done? No. Can I work in here? Yes. There are still the pictures to hang on the wall, and a set of gauzy curtains, but I can work in here. The other bits and pieces will come. Time to get back to writing.

Speaking of curtains, of the windows, it’s night right now while I’m writing, and a sweet, slightly cool breeze is blowing in. There are clouds in the sky, illuminated by a half moon stalking through and behind them. I love this office. Night or day, I love the view. Ever changing, but abstract, restful.

The noise, however, is still an adjustment. Not in a bad way, just different. I said on Twitter that it was like living in a bunker, and coming up from underground has flooded my senses. What can I hear right now, beyond my breath, my fingers on the keyboard? There are people, a few houses down, enjoying the cool weather. They have sure, loud, manly laughs, almost colluding, while the few women with them let them talk, laugh softly (in agreement) or awkwardly (in discomfort), interjecting here and there. A small dog goes into paroxysms of yapping that no one pays attention to, while crickets, desperate to get laid, serenade each other. Traffic in the distance is a mere hum.

Glass smashes the ground, and all noise stops. A gasp, and then, “It’s okay!” Doesn’t stop the laughter for long. At least not from the men. In a few minutes everyone’s talking again. Then the neighbor’s air conditioner kicks into high gear, an industrious rumbling, that muffles them all.

Except the crickets.

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