Nothing to say (with a laundry list of the little I've done)

I'm forcing myself to blog. I feel as if I have nothing to say. It's all been said, all been written, and yet, of course, not.

I predicted I would feel displaced, and my prediction is correct. I do not feel "at home." Brooklyn is so changed since I last lived here that even though I once lived not even one block away, there is nothing I recognize. When I lived here, the neighborhood was tiny, and venturing outside of it was perilous. Now, one can walk for miles.

I'd love to, but I can't. I changed my shoes after spending most of yesterday strolling around and then proceeded to take a spectacular fall when my clog's heel met the edge of a cracked sidewalk. Down I went. I would have landed face first and hard if not for breaking my fall with my shoulder, hip, and knee, and now I'm hurting. Not bad, but enough to make me tired and keep me from painting some walls.

I feel as if I'm living in a dorm. My back neighbor plays guitar at night and I'm glad it's boring enough to tune out. I'd prefer to choose my own background music, and suspect I'm going to start listening to music more often because of him. I am not fond of folksy jazz, but as far as neighbors go, it's better than if he was playing bad Doors covers (something I once lived with for a year).

So far, folks, there's nothing exciting to report. I've moved and am doing very little. I'm being somewhat antisocial, not making calls, taking it easy. The extent to which I'm tired makes me vulnerable to hyper-emotionality, and so I feel as if I'm hibernating some before the deluge starts. Once my spinning wheel is here, there's no reason not to get out there and spin in Soho, and start creating. . .I need to recharge my batteries, not do much of anything. . .and I'm only blogging because I feel I should.

That makes for one boring post, I'm sure. Oh dear. That back neighbor's guitar playing really is terribly insipid. I'm going to hear that every single night?! Ah, he's stopped. Maybe he realized how awful it is.

Oh no. He's back at it. I really should put something on, but I'm so used to the silence of owning my own home. No footsteps above me and no unwanted lousy music. Apartment life. . .

Photo note: The Honeymooners, set in Brooklyn. People used to bang on the ceilings and walls with a broom to shut the neighbors up. I'm not going to be doing that.

Newsflash: My back neighbor just came home, so this guitar playing is from someone else. Where? Who is it? The mystery may be solved at some point, not that it really matters.