Autumn

Alright, despite the rental and lack of photos, I feel like writing a bit. We're coming up on what may be my favorite time of year -- or at least my most energetic and productive time. The languid summer days are drawing to a close ... and the stress of the holidays is miles away. Or seems to be, anyway. They do start decorating earlier and earlier these days, which drives my mom and me nutso -- she takes the same stance on people who leave their decorations up well into January, and I can understand why. There's something forlorn about it, unloved. Like a hanging clock that stopped working ages ago - or a calendar set on the wrong month.

When I was looking for apartments before finding this one, I was particularly interested in a much larger but affordable place in the West Village, on Barrow Street. Actually on the corner of Barrow and whatever Christopher turns into across 7th Avenue. I visited it twice -- brought my mom by -- but there was always something that felt a little off -- like it had been suddenly abandoned. According to my sister I've "got the vapors"; I tend to pick up on weird energy (I know how flaky that sounds to some). There've been many times that I've sensed something forboding -- have not wanted to enter certain rooms, all that. This has been happening since I was a child. Some years ago I went to a party at the home of someone I was just getting to know. After a glass of wine or two I asked if someone had died there recently -- and, as it turned out, his roommate had a couple of months prior. Once in a bar in New Orleans I headed toward the ladies' room and couldn't bring myself to open the door ... I said something to the bartender and she said, "Everyone says that room is haunted!" If the vapors do in fact exist, I believe I've got 'em. With regard to the enormous apartment on Barrow Street, I asked my realtor to look into why the apartment was for sale ... I think you can guess how this story ends, but yes, the previous tenant had died there.

This was not at all what I intended to write about.

Are we all going to have arthritic thumbs in the future from all the texting that's suddenly required of us? I hate texting -- but sometimes it makes the most sense.

That said, I have an errand to run -- perhaps I'll be back later.