I'm in my neighbor's apartment today, my neighbor who is also my good friend. She's gotten married and moved to England, but will be back from time to time. Her apartment faces the street and is noisier than mine. It's bigger and the ceilings are higher. It holds the scent of her perfume.
I'm hiding from the noise and destruction going on in my own apartment, one flight above. The building's change from gas to electric means drilling and sawing, lots of men going up and down the stairs. They are cutting holes in the walls room by room.
I've got Harriet zipped into her carrier. All day, which breaks my heart. She's the sensitive one, the nearly feral cat, still high-strung after six years. I feel terrible for her, and for Gem. And for myself too. How addicted we are to our routines, how dependent on them for a feeling of well-being. I think I can speak for the three of us to say: Everything feels wrong to us.
Sometimes, I think I've outgrown my early sensitivities, like Harriet I've always been held together with a bit of tape: Good friends, a select few. A small, almost affordable place to live. Solitude and quiet. Music, my writing, the other meditative practices that take me out of myself. But sometimes, the anxiety that's ruled my earlier life comes back. The “Train” anxiety. It doesn't take much, sometimes. This disruption is enough. I feel like the girl with two babies from my song “Shelter.” Or the girl from my novel who wonders how she will take care of a baby when she can barely take care of her two cats and herself. I'm really quite consistent!
But even writing this helps.