Retreat

The exhaustion, euphoria, disappointments and novelty have worn away, replaced with inertia and bad habits of long standing. I walk rarely, as there is no place I must walk to, nothing of interest to walk to near home. I would have to drive to walk, and I hate burning gas for no reason.



I go flat, unwilling to assert myself to nourish friendships, make contact, take classes. Rebuffed in early attempts at classes, the pottery where I took classes no longer offers them, the yoga classes are at inconvenient times, the fitness center at D's alma mater is more out of the way now that he's started classes at the Big U, so when our month's fee lapsed, we let it.


Work is what it is, no surprizes, and I care about doing it well. Deeply. I have a weird schedule, which for my field is normal, with my agreement, a mid-week weekend, working Saturday. Useful, for getting errands (that are mostly done now) done, as well as being thrown in to all kinds of cases, proving that I can manage just fine, if not prettily. But I work the exact opposite schedule of a friend who I planned to hike canyons with. Not even worrying, just resigned and tired all the time.

I feel alone, without the loneliness from before, I have grown accustomed to spending months without socializing, a week or two passes me by, not aware I have not sat and talked with a friend.

Boston hurt. I miss very specific bits of Boston, without missing the place, and certainly not the place I worked there. Some of the people I worked with, I will miss all my life.

Knowing it would solve nothing, I dream of moving somewhere else. The troubles in the housing market, not normally a concern, kill off the vestiges of an old dream. I will probably never have a house of my own, no garden, no murals or stained glass windows. The situation in Turkey steals my long desire to see Istanbul and the Hagia Sophia, so dangerous, especially for americans, for so we are. Even visiting Britain feels ridiculous, having lived so much closer and not making it then.

Change feels a long way off. The novel is a massive mess. I untangle a bit every day, despairing of ever making it all come round.

I continue to toy with the idea of letting the blogging go. It is an artificial shortage issue, what would I fill that with? A bitter choice, to throw away a perfectly good artistic, communicative outlet, with no pressing replacement. Petulant and angry, not a choice of plenty, an impulsive rejection that if I can't have enough, I'll throw it all away. The idea that poked out of a miserable day will not leave. I am deflated, sinking.

So.

Insufficient beer error.

Amazing how a short day, only eight hours when twelve was expected, can improve my outlook on life. It's always the little things, always. I stopped at the best grocery store here, and picked up good beer as well.


If this feels insufficient, I need to build new first. Then reassess. And I have not. I have not written the kinds of essays I started with - longer, structured, nothing chatty about 'em. Now, I just whine.

I must ponder. I need a new set of guidelines, new expectations. Gotta get off my butt when I'm not at work.