Continuity Equation

12:39 p.m., March 10, I officially became a homeowner. All by mine own self. I went to the loft with D and Barbara, who'll do my painting, around noon, with a car full of art. I got the official call that it was mine on my cell as we wandered around this huge empty space pacing out paint acreage, discovering weird little nooks and crannies, like the little space up above the bathroom that should be storage but is exactly the right size for a little double-bed nest, and is oddly outfitted with a straw mat and built in light switch and fixture. D and I were weirdly delighted by this, by the possibilities of this hidey-hole, what could be done with old gym mats and flashlights. Barbara was less intrigued.

There wasn't a lot of reason to be there then, exactly -- figure out where each paint colour would go, open the window to hear the loud deep wind chimes from the store across the street -- one of the sounds of the market -- carry in my artwork, prop my folk art piece of Trudeau in a patron saint position on the buffet. Assure myself the place really exists and its cork floors can bear my weight.

I'm not sure what I feel about this exactly. Settled, a bit. Expansive, a bit. Some qualms about the decisions like paint, furniture, etc. I feel like I need to refract my experience against someone else to understand what I'm feeling. It seems like good space, it feels like the right neighbourhood, it feels like good choices and a launching pad for the rest of my life. There's a dull thud baseline running through it all, though, of uncertainty, recognition of the system that needs to open up around me and trepidation about that unfamiliarity. There's something about noticing all of a sudden how many people are partnered, how frequently people mention their spouses -- the woman in the paint store, the artist I have been talking to about a new painting -- in the same casual, asserting-locale way that I used to. Those conversations feel a little like what happens when you get an end-of-meal candy with a bill in a restaurant and you discover after sucking on it lustily that it's anise or lotus flavoured, not mint or cinnamon. Not awful, just unexpected.

I'm going to pick up S and explore the place, have coffee, drop off the paint for Barbara, prowl the neighbourhood a little bit. Find something I can start to expect.