I’ve been a little depressed. Which is worth examining because life has been good: we live in a beautiful home with great neighbors; I have a car that I love driving; we’ve had the opportunity to make friends with a wide variety of lovely people; and the communities out here move me– a bubbling of ideas that make it seem like anything can happen, anything can change. The sun shines every day.
Despite this, for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been distractingly blue. Sometimes thinking about Ruth. Sometimes not being able to sleep…
We just booked our tickets to go home for the holidays. It hit me so suddenly how good it will feel to be home for a little while. I’ve hardly thought about New York. It feels farther than it is.
But as November whips by, I imagine running errands on the Upper East Side. It’s dark out but it feels early. Daylight Saving has just started and I’m thinking about Christmas gifts. But there’s time, so today I won’t feel bad buying stuff for myself. I’ll text KL and ask him what we’re going to have for dinner. Maybe he’ll text me back that we should meet at Setagaya for a big bowl of steaming ramen. We’ll walk home holding hands with gloves on and shed our thick layers when we get back to our small but well-lit studio.
I miss it. I miss the cold. I miss a book. The one that has the poem. I would put it here now. Mark Wallace’s Standard Time.