Why did I do laundry, on a Friday night, in a city so full of life? Because the wind will stop blowing from the North tomorrow, the sky will be clear and the air will be warm. Because the laundry needed to be done, and after dancing in the street for two hours this evening, all I wanted to do was sit in a warm laundry and read about all the artistic activity in the city in which I live.
It's only nine o'clock now. There are options abundant: music, dance, theater, cabaret. It's also cold, and I get around by bike. Not that the weather would stop me if I really wanted to be somewhere.
The truth is, I can feel myself pulling inward. I am fond of company. I am fond of spirits, and all manner of joyous celebration of life. Yet winter approaches and, after the intensity of this Halloween experience, I'm ready for some quiet time alone. I am fond of solitude. Books are calling. A book is calling to be written. I'm eager to slip into a winter routine: writing in the morning, working on my house in the afternoon, dancing in the evening. I have about a four month window; me and my root cellar - I might not leave my house much, late November, December, January and February. I'm sure I'll have a first draft by then.
With the Fairy's lack of interest, I have begun to question my need for female companionship. Like most people, I'm fond of the idea of a partner. I am also quite happy alone. My days and nights are full, whatever I do. Anyway, more than one friend has commented on my eccentricity. Another has commented on how well I blend in. My father said to me the other day, "You sure have a great work ethic. I don't know why no one seems to notice." Most of the time, I feel invisible. Or at least, unseen. Even when I dance in the street as Wacky Jacket Jenkins, I'm surprised by how many people fail to see me, how many people endeavor not to see me.
I'd be happy to have a partner. Alas, I sit alone, sipping scotch, in the ladies Boodoir of Monster Halloween. Which will no longer exist after a week's time, nor the shrine to the Goddess contained therein. The shrine that few of the thousands of woman in costume in this Boodoir noticed. The shrine that really only was one because I treated it as so.
So I write this now by the light of an electrified plastic heart and a computer monitor. The monitor might be for sale. The plastic heart is not available at any price.