Toilet seat up. "Hmmn...?" Both of my computers on the dining room table, along with the external hard drive, burner and speakers. "Whazza--? You'd think...." Seventies hard rok squawking from the stereo. "YEAH! That's what I'm--yeah!" Children's toys, not put away but merely shoved back against the walls.
Uh-huh. My wife and daughters are out of town. And in this very quiet apartment, I have become Talking to Myself Guy.
I can stay up as late as I want, and sleep late too. I could be Go to a Rave Take Ecstacy and Become Convinced that the World is One Guy. Or Walk the Streets All Night and Experience the Real Vienna Guy. Or even just drink two beers and Walk the Streets Part of the Night Guy. No. I think I'll stay home, edit family fotos, watch an old Western movie, and mutter. "The lighting in this scene--wait, lemme back it up--this is-whoa."
That's the kind of guy I am.
I really did drink two beers the other night. I mean two of the big ones. Tall boys.
Plus, yesterday, I did leave the house. I went to Prosi, our Asian-Latin-African grocery and bought a can of refried black beans and a jar of sliced jalapenos. Then I went to the main public library, and spent a few hours listening to music I've never heard while looking at coffee table picture books about sixties cinema and twentieth century Russia. Then I came back home, edited more family fotos and made nachos for one.
Completely useless, entirely exploratory, unhurried looking and listening. That's my excess.