Woke up this morning about 3 AM, threw some clothes in the washer and went for a walk.
I've lived in this neighborhood for--holy crap!--four years now. I've walked these streets many times, usually around this time of day, when no one else is about, or even awake. Today my walk is nearly silent, save for the splat-splat-splat of old raindrops blown from leaves, and a brief snatch of music as I pass a basement apartment. (Apparently Johnny Cougar wants a lover that won't drive him crazy.)
A few months ago, walks like these had the feeling of nostalgia in the making, as I was confident I would soon be moving away from this neighborhood, into a new apartment and a new life with Tabbatha. Now, of course, I realize that won't be happening, and I won't be leaving on my own anytime soon, either, as my current financial situation prevents me from looking for a new place.
So now, I've come to resent this area, with its beautifully restored Victorian houses and crumbling Depression-era apartment buildings. I find myself even hating this very walk, this little ritual from which I once took great comfort. Every step leads to stasis, inertia, entropy.
Damn, I sound depressing.
By grand literary tradition, essays involving one's thoughts while on a quiet, contemplative walk are supposed to have some sort of point, even if the point is that there is no point. But this was no journey to the inner recesses of my psyche, just a way to kill time until I could throw my clothes in the dryer, after which I flipped channels and was horrified to discover a local station shows reruns of Gimme A Break at five in the morning.
Which led to the realization that TV in the early eighties was far worse than remembered, but that isn't much of a revelation.
