two years of wandering means eight goddamn years until the nostos
I bit the bullet and signed up with eHousing. Surely they will help me find my Berkeley Dream Cottage or Dream Duplex or Dream Barn or whatever, and surely I will pay through the nose for it. I can't say I mind, really. For the next six years I won't have any real money anyway, just an arbitrary amount of debt.
I bit another bullet and finally succumbed to the Spirit of 1999 by signing up for a cell phone. If I'm going to spend a week wandering unfamiliar sidewalks and trying to set up appointments with suspicious property owners, I'll probably need the little devil. I wish I were able to push these logistics aside for now and enter that blesséd state of detached contemplation (or some similar Keatsian effusion) necessary to produce these damn paragraphs, but it's sort of a problem. Whinge, whinge, whinge, whinge / You tell me why there's no food in the fridge. I know, I could be Charles Ives and selling insurance.
