First night

I rolled into the apartment -- my apartment -- around 1:40 pm today, and have been acting the part of a scullery maid for the better part of 10 hours or so.

It was an odd feeling walking into the studio. I can't really believe that this is my place for a year, that I'm in New York -- that I live in New York, in this studio. I've been leading such a peripatetic existence the past five years, it seems strange to unpack my things with the intent to stay a while.

I haven't wandered just physically, of course, and that's the other side of the weirdness. It feels like I'm starting down a path toward the stability and steadiness that I see many of my peers having reached. Having avoided responsibility, permanence (as it were, in this day and age), and most of all, definition, I have mixed feelings about being here.

I'm wondering too if I'll like living by myself. I like living with roommates, and I especially loved living with Mathgirl and hus (all the fun of living with friends, and none of the responsibility!). I faded into myself my senior year of college, which was the last time I lived by myself -- even though I lived in a dorm, my room and entryway were a little removed from my friends. I hope that won't happen here.

About 40 minutes after I walked in, the doorman rang up and said there was a package for me, a delivery of flowers. I was certain it was the wrong address until I opened the card and saw it was from my dad. Man, that gave me the warm fuzzies. It's a huge leafy green thing -- I do believe it's four different plants in one large ceramic pot. With its arrival, I didn't feel quite so alone.

It's time to go to "bed" here, "bed" tonight meaning a layer of cardboard boxes on the parquet floor, with a sheet and blanket on top. I'm not quite so permanent and defined yet.