Home Sweet Town Houzistan

I am having a difficulty finding somewhere to write in my new digs. Certainly, it stands to reason that since I am as shiny as a new penny here, it will take me a while to find my spot. But there are other issues getting in the way, as well. Since our moving team decided what we needed at our temporary housing instead of sticking to my list, there have been unforeseen challenges to me working at home. For instance, a writer needs good lighting. I had listed the necessary lamps t be delivered to our temporary digs, but the movers decided to give me only one lamp, but supplemented me with a fondue pot and several Bundt pans. Don’t get me wrong, I am not about to take the gifting of the fondue pot for granted, but a little lighting beyond what could be mistaken for prison cell chic, would be nice. The next thing a writer needs is flat surfaces to write on, say like a desk, or a bench, or table for instance. I will admit to you we do have a few of these of things, but since we were gifted with several dozen boxes that were supposed to go to storage, which will now and forever more be referred to as The Big House, they are covered in layers and layers of stuff. Stuff, I might add, that was supposed to be trekked to The Big House. I am currently writing on a several stacked pillows, while leaning over all the electronics and cords. My comfort’s current consideration is the least of this. I am a bit of a control freak about the environment I write in. I have spoken to many writers and they face the same quandaries I do about the space where they write. For me I need peace, quiet, and clean. I have none of these here in Town Houzistan. My uber-cluttered environment has me feeling clogged and my back can only take so much before I steal away part of my makeshift desk to lie down on the floor, the only un-cluttered surface we have. There are also weird happenings here in Town Houzistan. Last week we had the emergency squad and police here to rescue either a boy or a man, I couldn’t tell, from the communal pool. It turned out to be an unfortunate near drowning incident. The weird part of that is no one seemed to know where he lived or who he was related to. Next we had neighbors who threw one helluva party on a Thursday night with so many people; they spilled onto the patio and the parking lot that was twenty yards away. Last night the fire department showed up to extinguish a grease fire in someone’s oven. The day before a police SUV sat in our parking lot for over an hour, and that is only what I saw. When I asked a neighbor if this place was always so busy, he responded, “No, this is unusual for here. It all just started a few weeks ago.” He asked how long I had lived here and I responded with a vague shrug, not wanting him to know we moved in a few weeks ago. I find myself not sure what to do. I want to be busy writing, creating, and furthering my process, but I feel weird and watch the internet and TV instead. In truth I really don’t feel guilty about my bad behavior, just odd. It takes time to figure who you are when you move to a new town. Just finding the Post Office can set me back a few hours. Having the internet to rely on has been a God send. Remind me to send Al Gore a big “Thank You” note. If not for the internet, settling into my new town would take infinitely longer, trust me; I’ve done the leg work on this one. I thought about writing in a café or a book store, Barnes and Noble has free WiFi, but yelling at the patrons to “Pipe down!” because I can’t concentrate and can’t afford to lose my train of thought might be problematic. I currently have a small space outside with a bistro table and chairs, covered in fresh rain drops. It’s under a large oak tree, in a quiet corner, isolated from the growing amount of police traffic. It’s a perfect place to write if it weren’t raining, or swarmed in mosquitoes. I have excuses for not writing and they are damn good ones. While I am not usually fluent in procrastination, this time, I am allowing it. Nay, I am practicing it. I know soon enough I will bore of my boredom and get back to work. In a short time I will be chomping at the bit to finish what I started, hushing those who dare speak to me whilst I am writing. That time is coming. But today, and tomorrow, probably, and maybe the next day, I am a bum. As my dialogue sits idly waiting for my return, my twitter account and facebook and other media escapes have been tended to as diligently as if they were a garden of rare roses. I have to go now. “When Harry Met Sally” is on and I have four new followers and pm on facebook, and I still haven’t checked my LinkedIn.