I am typing on a netbook that kormantic's significant other loaded up and lent me. I've been wanting to try out one of these. I've decided it's like typing on the side of a hamster. But it's just as cute.
I'd have liked to post days ago, but the shape of those days kept me away from computers until now. My case manager got me a week-long (possibly two) guest stay in a Capitol Hill transitional housing unit. It's a stone's throw from the apartment I lived in for eight years when I first moved to Seattle. It was transitional housing back then too, and I remember being nervous when I walked past the stoop where dubious people--junkies! possibly criminals!--sat smoking. In fact, so far, it is one of the most reassuringly sedate buildings I've ever lived in. We all have ten o'clock curfews and similar problems.
I wouldn't mind staying in this place in a more long-term way. The housing manager who did my intake mentioned it as a possibility; an encouraging, no-nonsense woman. I don't know how feasible it is yet. We'll see.
I'm in a floating current; so much keeps changing day to day. But I'm doing okay at the moment. I have appointments tomorrow to structure my time, and a new month's worth of food stamps (which aren't stamps, but electronic funds), and I'm near a Half-Price Books and a flagship Starbucks (where I sit), and every day I get at least one exercising walk in, crossing town to check in with my case manager. I've done two loads of laundry in the basement facilities: I so much enjoy doing laundry. Not a thing to take for granted. (Laundromats in downtown Seattle? Ha ha ha...! None. And yet, interestingly, not once did I notice someone's B.O. while staying in the DESC shelter--except my own. Joy joy joy, the bathroom at my current place is completely private and beautifully clean.)
With the goal of limbering my brain at least a little I am making myself intermittently set down my escapist mystery novels and pick up something different. I read Oliver Twist over the last few days. Maybe not the best first choice for a literary departure. Long, twisty, taffy-like sentences and roundabout methods of expression. But I hadn't read it before.
Now I am reading (re-) Garrison Keillor's Love Me, which I got for a dollar on the clearance rack. All his books to me are brilliant yarns knitted into warm, homey scarves, cozy and familiar but at the same time you can't put Isadora Duncan and stranglers entirely out of your mind.
I won't try and re-read what I just wrote. The Starbucks ambiance is a fuzzy overlay of music, talk, and espresso steamers--not a place where you get Thoreau-like lucidity, but that's okay. Hm, maybe this entry is Keilloresque? Or just dopey and globally unique.
Live from Seattle,