Chitter, chatter

My head has been running an inner dialogue these past few days. I’m either writing a new story or a play or essay in my thoughts while puttering around the house doing odds and ends. I had to stop myself and realize what I was doing as though these mental creations were happening pretty much without much consciousness. I don’t know if that’s dangerous or not, but it certainly seems to be a hazard of living alone without too much external stimuli.

I met with Jan, the realtor, on Sunday and the cold facts of entering into the harsh world of buying and selling properties, 6% fees, escrows, etc hit me again square in the face. The very thought of having to organize stuff to sell, dispose of or to pack makes me weary. Staying here seems attractive at this point. I mean, so the house is too big for one person. It’s familiar to me, no? The monthly cost of maintenance is less than most HOA fees. Moving into a smaller place wouldn’t change the fact that I am alone. After all the huffing and puffing of a move is done, and the pictures are hung on the wall, I’d be alone in a smaller place. What would be the advantage of that?

Besides, trying to sell and buy a property simultaneously would be nerve wracking.

Perhaps I could get a roommate. I had one for most of the time I was in Long Beach. Paul. Omar and Damien were the best of the lot. The others, not so. I think I had a 50% success of the men I had living there. I can only remember William. I can’t remember the other one or two. Why would I get a roommate? I don’t really need the money. Company I suppose. But that’s usually the wrong reason for a roommate. Roomates are looking for a room, not a friend. If I’m looking for a friend, besides my cat, I should get a dog. I know me: my hidden agenda is to look for a young, recovering, emotionally vulnerable man, for whom I can be uncle/older lover/friend. Do I trust myself to bring in someone as a room mate on strictly utilitarian terms? I dunno. I’m pretty vulnerable myself: even though I think I’m such a shrewd judge of character (hah!) I could easily be led down a primrose path to my own destruction and ruin. Many is the tale of the older man taken in by the slick younger person and left high and dry on the shoals of poverty and homelessness.

So, as of this writing, I’m inclined to say, stay put. Where I am is where I’m meant to be. That’s a phrase I’ve fallen back on before. If there’s no clear path beckoning for me to follow, where I am is where I’m meant to be.

Selah.

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