(Dining table, with magazines, airplanes spare books, backpack and a Cartier bag filled with clip-on bow ties. Photo Socotra).

It is beautiful weather, though I am off to a slow start this morning. I was up at two, the list of things that need to be done in the next three or four days- is daunting.

I got depressed when I was padding out to the pool deck to try to continue the swim therapy on the leg and saw the Vietnamese man who is currently in the poolside unit I have rented, pending the sale of Tunnel Eight, horsing a large leather recliner out of the unit.

There appeared to be a significant amount of furniture still in the place, and he stopped in his- soon to be my- doorway, and explained that he had been in an automotive accident that morning, and was slipping behind since he did not have his car. My heart sank.

I was hoping to get a jump on things tomorrow and move some of the fragile crap and books down there before the moving crew arrives to pack me up and slide me down to the first floor.

It looks like another trip to the brink, and maybe beyond. Deep cleansing breaths, I told myself. OOOMMMMMM.

Looking around at the unit, I get more depressed than I do with the visit of Madam Clinton to the Obama White House. Even though things have been thinned out considerably since the decision was made to make the old place ready for sale. There are ominous stacks of books leaking knowledge out onto the floor. Pots and pans lurking in drawers, unseen for years, and piles of magazines and paper notifications of the old life that is slipping away, or better said, cast out over the balcony.

I am stuck at the moment, though I suppose there are things I could be doing in preparation. Which is why I was lying in the bed looking up into the darkness, wide-awake, then drifting off again until past the alarm.

Speaking of alarms, don’t be surprised if I am hauling crap and miss a day or two as we get to the coming weekend. I am fine. Just approaching the eve of the storm. Should be clear sailing on the other side, right?

Get me through the next week, Lord, and I promise I will never attempt to make my life make sense again.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
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