auspicious coincidence

I wrote a most brilliant entry about a dream that I had over the weekend in which I was practicing martial arts with an Asian instructor, but alas, the dream was lost due to a poor Internet connection and my refusal to set my browsers to cache.  I don't know why I haven't learned this lesson.  There's absolutely no reason why I couldn't or shouldn't write my little heart out in a different application and import it in to Movable Type other than that's just not how I do it, and like most humans, I am a creature of habit.

So it seems that I did contract a virus of some kind.  I was out sick yesterday and moving slowly this morning.  I think I went to bed a little after 9:30 last night.

Padma had the day off and invited me over to his house to rest.  He went out to the store and bought Norbu and I groceries and then made me lunch.  It was hard to be in what was our home less than a week's worth of heartbeats earlier.  Feeling sick and scared and rather traumatized, I couldn't stop crying even though I wanted to.  No matter what I said or did, the tears just poured down my face.  All these little things that feel astronomical in proportion keep happening in regards to getting the new place set up, and I was really upset by one of them when Padma returned from the store.  "This needs to stop now," Padma told me, "Tell me what I need to do to fix this so that we can move on." 

We bagged up some things from the kitchen, including the flatware that we bought together that I so wanted to leave behind but of course can't afford to refuse.  My picky sensibilties enjoy the more classic and delicate flatware or silverware, often Oneida or something fancier, than the chunky utilitarian contemporary flatware that is popular in the here and now.

I rode home in a cab with my bags of heavy things.  The world was a blur brought about my inability to focus my eyes due to a combination of illness and not wearing my glasses as the sharpness of the world while wearing them sometimes makes me feel worse when plagued by headaches or nausea, a swirl of people and businesses and lights and chaos.  For the first time that I can remember, I found myself amidst all this New York craziness really asking myself, What am I doing here?

My father keeps making me aware that I can come home at any time, home being this ambiguous and non-existent place being as how he lives in a place that I've never lived.  "There's an apartment here waiting for you, as soon as you decide that you've had enough of New York."  

I counter him with a retort, "As soon as I feel like not having a job is an option, I'll take you up on that." Despite his offers, he knows that I'm not ready to leave New York.  I don't know that I'll ever be ready to leave New York.  Like Carrie in a cheesy episode of Sex and the City, New York is sometimes the love of my life, maybe in that rather classic Harlequin romance love/hate kind of way.  I hate to love you, I love to hate you, and I just plain love you, you fucking city.  You keep me from almost everyone that I love in more ways than one, and still I can't let you go.

How crazy does the girl sound, she wonders, although she is wont to care.  

I shall end this entry only because responsibilities beckon because I know that I could easily type my heart out for another hour or so.  I have much to say and so few to listen and being the visually verbal person that I am, can't really get the words out right without writing them down, anyway.  Remind me to tell you all of how I want to recover that confidence and self-assuredness I felt a year ago as I start my life over once again--which I wish that I could say was for the last time but that would be ludicrous as life is nothing but fresh starts no matter how much you try to cling to ten years ago or ten days ago or even ten seconds ago.   There is nothing left to do but head back to the cushion, but the cushion seems so much less inviting now that I know the horrors that I'm up for.  I should make offerings to the maras and the hungry ghosts and learn not to fear my own mind, but I'm oh so tired. . . .