She gets totally charged redoing things in the house, the more dramatic the better. I remember how I'd arrive at her flat at 617 Napa Street in the early years of our relationship, when she'd have two weekday mornings at home, and find everything rearranged and spotless.
Not being able to do that, after I moved in, what with my piles of "archives" and general Taurean intransigence, definitely added stress to her life.
Outlets, as both she and I have come to realize more forcefully since beginning to blog, are even more important than we think they are when we don't have them.
That old place in Vallejo didn't have many. Every one had a power strip or surge protector attached. And if you tried to use the microwave while toasting something, a trip to the back alley circuit breaker was your reward.
Now we have plenty of places to download electricity. But, until we started keeping our journals, not many places to upload our thoughts and feelings.
It's funny how metaphoric and literal meanings converge. Perhaps that's the most prescient lesson of the cyberpunk fiction I'm writing about this week.
Anyway, hearing "Jungleland" rumble through the walls to the front of the house, where I'm sitting, helps make everything come together, even with this paint and solvent-induced headache that won't go away for a day or two.
