After all...

I'm supposed to feel a song
Pour fifty five tears down her reel.
The Boss is busy feeling up the fourth in line,
we're out fishing for the driver's wheel.

Complicated and all in knots,
the aftertaste of the unacquired taste.
Love's a bitch and wish you were here,
its fun when we make love in haste.

What's the problem, ask's Doctor Teeth
Would you prefer a life less lived?
Excuse my language, I quite like my frog
especially in his moments of Prince.

Jack tumbled down the hill last night,
Jill suffered vertigo in silence...
True love is far too much fun these days.
lets Bonnie and Clyde this past tense

Rigmarole and Routine eloped,
the last ones expected to pine.
Make tea in the mornings, then dinner past midnight
and retext me that fantastic line.

And what a surprise the Mad Hatter feigned,
a padlocked diary of barter?
Kisses and chants with five coconut bars
We're going to live happily ever after.

H for Happy....

It’s been close to six weeks since The Move. Jam has had several life altering experiences in her otherwise peaceful existence. She wonderfully remains the naughty, intrinsically sunny kitten she is. Being plump does wonders for her disposition. Falling out of my third floor apartment (The kitchen window was open and she who has sat and sunned herself on it a million times, leaned too far forward in an excited attempt towards a mocking pigeon) and being chased by my well meaning watchman looking to score brownie points with me, resulted in a day of sitting quietly in her previously irrelevant basket and hobbling around with a severely strained muscle in her hind leg. She’d never seen the outside world and this unpleasant initiation coupled with a hysterical, tearful me and an unknown (but nice) vet, made for a somber deflowering. I was the traumatized one however. The next day, by evening, she was playing with her ball, using only upper body. Leg’s healing and so am I.

Home is now a nice, warm, colorful apartment. Being alone, feeling alone and wanting company many miles way is becoming a less vehement voice in my head. Despite working late each night, initially I dreaded the days off. Invitations to drinks that I did not want to drink, with people I was determined to not enjoy, were becoming hard to deal with. Secondly, being alone in a house that wasn’t home yet, suffocated me. I missed home and its people and the cool dark drizzle outside my French windows. Work, the reason I’d moved, is great. However I’m one of those people who need play too. So I resented work for being so nice, the same way I had yelled at play last year, for being perfect, for holding me back.

I traveled insanely. I planned the move during a period I knew would be hectic. I’ve done enough packing, unpacking, hotel rooms and room service for a long time. I love the excitement of it, I detest the thought that it’s a bit of me running away from settling into a city that I’m going to have to live in, for a very long time. A city that never sleeps, that makes me afraid of being unhappy. A fighter city.

I’m still not all there. I’m still traveling. I like the people, even though I haven’t met a potential great friend yet. But often these days, when I get home at night, I find myself looking forward to an established, comfortable routine that smells suspiciously like home. Jam greets me noisily at the door, we cuddle for a good 15 minutes, I get myself a shower and something hot or cold. Dinner, emails, television, book, calls, bed….

There is hope yet.