Wired

I do not remember the morning. I remember that I wanted to (needed to) get online, and something was different. My friend from New York...[I'm not sure what to call him here, because he will, thankfully, keep showing up. His name is KD, but my therapist, who is usually bafflingly attentive to details, sometimes gets my New York KD's name mixed up with with my romantic Red Cross Antwerp friend's name - who I have not named here in any way. And I don't want to keep explaining that KD is an emotionally-intimate ex. I stay at the hotel rooms or apartments he rents while he stays here (for work), but I sleep in the twin or, now, day bed - or on the edge. He stays places close to my apartment, so that it is easy for me to walk home to feed my cat, and give her her medicine, and spend some time with her. He calls her, my cat, "So" - which is not her name. I will call KD, "NYKD," (like NYFD - the New York Fire Department, for something other than fire)],...my friend from New York, NYKD, had tinkered with wirelessness at my apartment yesterday, which did not work today. So nor did anything on my computer that worked before.

I don't think I was being "psychotic," but I could - beyond "normal" - not handle not being able to get to my space here, my blog, or to others' from here. I unplugged everything that looked reasonable, and tried to plug in everything in every combination to return things to the familiar. I could not fit things into things. One could fit one end, but not the other.

So I stretched out all the wires parallel in a corner, and I cleaned the rest of my apartment, and then could not think of anything else to do that I could do in a state of frustration that compacted. (Everything but the litter box, and washing my hair.) And then I put all my wires in a bag that NYKD had left here, with my computer, and I walked up the hill to the apartment where he rented for the week he's staying - because he was not answering his phone, and I was going to break something if I couldn't be moving toward fixing it. The disconnection.

He answered my soft, out-of-breath knock, slowly opening the door. He said, "We're filming," and I remembered that the reason I was at my apartment, and not here in the first place, was that he had an interview.

I said, "I forgot. I'm sorry. "

He said, "It's OK," and ,"Come in," and opened the door so that his body blocked the direction of the hallway to the white diffused-lit living room.

He gestured welcome toward the darker, tree-shuttered bedroom, (the other direction), - with no detectable annoyance what-so-ever. He said, "There's some Valium on the table between the beds."

I said, "I don't need Valium. I need a computer." He said OK like it was the same thing and brought to me - sitting in wait in the middle of his big white bed, against the Victorian-detailed headboard - his wireless-functional brand-new MacBook. No problem. And went back to filming.

He left the bedroom door open, with the confidence I'd be set, and I could hear the muffled - very male filming energy between them - the camera man, NYKD, and the interviewer. - And later, the straight, personal touches after the fact.

I was at peace here, there.

My rushed and discontinuous thoughts can get lined up here, (online), to some extent, somehow - with much more work than it might seem reading. I don't know why blogging works for me. Whether anyone might read this post or not, for better or worse, a paper journal is too lonely in the moment in times when the moment is all I can remember.