I ran from the car to the elevator, the minutes ticking away until midnight, but loading Vista is so frigging slow that by the time I launched this post, it was three minutes past. Then I remembered my “day rule” – it’s still Monday to me until I go to sleep.
I had left Jane’s thinking,”I have no picture and nothing to write,” but as I put my bags in the trunk of my car, I saw that that would be my shot for the day. This also gave me something to write about, my baggage. Well, not that kind of baggage, although I do have things I carry around from my past. More on the order of doing three or four things with my time, and having a bag for each: my tax job, my day job, my Catholic class (the God bag), and for overnights. There’s still one more, for freelance assignments, but that one is temporarily on the shelf – the proof for the book I’m copyediting is too large for a bag. Hey, why not throw in a recyclable grocery bag or two?
My nomadic existence in the urban village will not continue for long. Soon I will live in a home instead of an apartment, and the overnight bag will be for trips. Tax season will end April 15, followed by the culmination of Catholic classes. I will have one bag come June, and be a nomad no more, but rather a curator of antiques and art and books, a settled-down man who can then let his mind roam while his body remains at peace.
As Lewis Carrol put it, “Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!/He chortled in his joy.”