A Keen Move

It's been so long.

But, it's been such a strain to find the time. Then when there is the time, there isn't the will or energy. Then when there is the will or energy there is no computer at my disposal. The computer wasn't mine. It belongs to the Nurse.

I am not a 9-5er! In this crazy world of blogs, I have found that the 9-5ers can really shell out posts on a regular basis. Which means I put my stuff out there in hopes that people still remember pokeandpour exists...alas...

I moved. I moved out of my apartment in Hell's Kitchen and to a different apartment. I moved to a new neighborhood and live by myself for the first time in my 29 years. But, really, I moved out of my life. I moved out of my comfort zone. I moved over--to give him and myself some room. I moved into a different life. I moved into a different atmosphere. The lighting is different. The smells are unique and unfamiliar. The stairs feel awkward to my feet and my legs. There are drippy faucets and tiny noises that keep me awake. There are colors on the wall that are not agreeable. There is no hustle and bustle outside my building anymore. The air even feels different from up here in the 100's. I walk down the street and no one knows me. I don't have a favorite coffee shop yet. I don't know which laundromat to trust. I don't have a favorite take out place to order in from. Which bodega has the best selection of BEN and JERRY's? I don't have a television or a computer. I don't or can't share toothpaste, or steal anyone's socks, or spritz with someone else's cologne. The carpet wasn't my choice. The sofa and bed aren't mine.

The blanket is...thankfully.

My blankets. My down comforter. My sheets. My pillows. Thank goodness. Without these things that are mine to wrap myself up in, I would have no comfort in the chaos that surrounds me. I take my ipod, my vitamin water, and my underwear-clad body and slip it underneath the 600 thread count sheets that always stay crisp and cool. The air conditioner is silently buzzing. I keep a light on. I have yet to feel safe or comfortable enough in my new space to lay in the dark. I stay on the right side of the bed. That was my side for the majority of our relationship. It was the right side in Brooklyn but not at his place. It was the right side on 163rd Street and 173rd Street but not at 64th Street. Then it was the back to the right side again on 46th Street. I stay close to the edge but never fall off. I force myself to close my eyes. I am exhausted but can't sleep. I can't get my mind to sleep. Everything is so new, different, scary, sad, lost, forgotten, fast, fucked, fragile. These are only a few of the emotions that keep my blood warm and pulsing. I do it to myself. I start thinking sad thoughts. How time flies. Memories. Smells. I add my soundtrack. With three to four clicks of my ipod wheel it begins....

"Sometimes it's hard to know where I stand,
It's hard to know where I am,
Well maybe it's a puzzle I don't understand.
Sometimes, I get the feeling that I'm
stranded in the wrong time
where love is just a lyric in a children's rhyme.

It sounds by,
Is it any wonder I'm tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don't know what's right?
Oh, these days, after all the misery made,
Is it any wonder that I feel afraid?"

Is it any wonder I cry. Keane can do it to me all the time.