proteanme

Life is made up of tram rides and bike rides and putting away the dishes and putting away my clothes and paying bills and balancing my checkbook and trying figure out how to stop the water that sometimes comes in through the basement door and buying food or picking it out of the back yard and cutting my hair and sweeping up the bits the fall to the ground and then sweeping again because I never get it all the first time and lifting weights and looking for my running shoes and making tea and brushing my teeth and flossing and reading the New Yorker or The New York Review of Books or the New York Times online and looking for my gloves or my sunglasses or a pen that works right and checking my voice mail and writing short emails and making lists of things I need to do in the next hour or next day or next week and then going to sleep but I hardly ever sleep through the night any more and waking up to feed the cats who are oblivious to day light savings time and making art and listening to music and wishing there was a movie I really wanted to see and writing and fretting about writing and avoiding writing and playing Matt’s guitar and reading old letters my dad wrote home during WW2 and dusting and taking out the trash and going through the mail and getting annoyed about the tall decorative grass drooping over out front side walk and calling my sister and talking to Rachel and stopping to take a photo of the sunrise or the fog or the big ship they are building in the shipyard at the bottom of the tram and putting on my rains pants and turning on my bike lights and muttering to myself about the people who pass me but don’t say on your left and petting the cat and changing my shirt and rubbing my feet together just like my mom does.