Prodigal

Hello there.  Been a while since I've written.

Well, I guess these days, "a while" is a relative term, since some of you have had to endure months where I went without a journal entry, back in the days when my computer died.

So anyway, I'm on the train back to Philadelphia, having gone up to New York for my day off -- trying to prepare my apartment for the arrival of Jay O'Berski, who's staying there a couple of nights while he's in town with friends, doing some filming.

I took some linens and towels and stuff down to the laundromat to wash them, and cleaned up the bathroom which was, to be frank, a bit of a fright.

It's funny how each time I come back to it I'm reminded how lame my apartment might seem to people who don't live in New York; who aren't used to paying outrageous sums of money for shoe-box apartments. But the fact of the matter is that I love my apartment, its quirks (and believe me, there are many:  just ask Maya, who has yet to figure out how the keys to my building work) notwithstanding, and the fact that most of my stuff is still either in storage or at Gavan's house -- leaving the place empty -- sometimes bugs me.  I wish I could fill it up with my furniture, and my books and videos and music and my artwork.  I miss the lovely photograph of the Irish countryside that hung (when last I saw it) in Gavan's family room.  And the print of Monet's Water Lilies that  hangs in his guest bedroom.  And I miss my Kitchenaid Mixmaster mixer, and all the cooking utensils my mom gave me.

I think I'm having a nesting urge.

I was having this conversation with someone the other day -- it might have been Erika, my housemate in actor housing -- about how it never really mattered to me that I was living this gypsy existence, floating from sublet to share to sublet to share for all the time I've been in New York; until recently, that is.

Since I had the trouble with my old roommates and their battle with the crazy landlord, and I unceremoniously found myself looking for a place of my own, I've had a real urge to make a home for myself.  One that's mine, one that doesn't depend upon the whims of others.  One where I could -- and believe me when I tell you this isn't high on my list -- I could walk around naked if I so choose.

So in that light, how can I not love my apartment, despite its peculiarities, despite its quirks akimbo?