Impermanent Vacation

 I have a weird pain in my arm. No, not that kind of weird pain, more like a bruise or something. I was sitting around moping about my future of cancer or whatever then I remembered a couple of days ago I moved the iMac from the sun porch* into the office* and though it's not heavy I bet a corner of it pressed my arm there or something and, as has been happening for years now, the effects took a few days to show up. Also I'm achy in general today.

I told M. I finally figured it out, what's bothering me about living up here: I feel like I'm on vacation and I've stayed too long. The same feeling I'd get when the end of staying at my grandparents' place in North Carolina would approach and I'd start thinking of how much I missed my favorite radio station, my own bed, ground that wasn't all tilty, even the beach. (They lived in Highlands in the summer, which is in the mountains, sort of like where I live now.) Only I can't go home, all my stuff is here, even my favorite radio station went to Top 40 when I was in high school and never went back. 

Then he asked me maybe I needed to figure out where I really want to live and I said I think I was happiest in Orlando. I was, to be frank, pretty miserable in Miami once I was on my own. It's a grim sort of place to be broke and a young adult who doesn't like disco in. I think now I could put up with it, even like living there again, though Orlando has just a touch of that seasonal change that I know I will miss (the autumn part) in Miami. 

I found that a keyboard tray has been under my desk at work the whole time. I knew there was a bracket there but thought the tray wasn't attached, but it was, just turned away to the back. Well I pulled it out and looked it over. It was filthy, decades of grime. I tried to clean it with the can of wet wipes I keep in one of the overhead cupboards but they weren't enough. And my hands got gross. Anyway, it's in the wrong place for how I have my computer set up now, so I shoved it back under the desk. It's not a big deal, I have room to work. 

Writing anything fictional seems impossible at the moment. I've been reading over some of my story beginnings and unlike in the past I don't hate them and think they are cringe so that's something? But I just can't get started on anything. I keep pushing the idea of writing off and off. I'm not getting any younger either.

This place is just too big for me. At least some stuff of M's has been cleared out. He sold a couple of things and gave away a couple more. I gave away the couch. It was comfortable but all I did was sprawl in it like a sack. And it was too big for the sun porch and wouldn't fit through any of the tiny doors to the rest of the apartment. I'm working on the "office" - the middle room. It's almost there, I have a reading nook, my desk with the iMac on it, a "hippie pad" seating area around the club chair and shelf stereo. I bought a rug from M., and he put the two porch chairs from Lowe's in here where the couch was. They are extremely dirty so I covered them with a couple of blankets. They'll do until I can drag them outside and give them a good scrubbing. 

But really, I'd be happy in a studio. All this room means I feel the need to fill it with stuff, yet I still am not using the entire place. If I can get less tired, I'll try to read in my reading nook instead of bed. (Read books that is. I need to get back to reading books. I've started in a small way, paperback mysteries from the used book store.)

*I have decided to call the front room next to the kitchen what it probably used to be, a sun porch, and the middle room is back to being my office. For now.