Everything either feels like it just happened, or it happened one thousand years ago, or it never happened at all. For the most part, this is how my memory works.

The night before last night I stayed up too late. It was raining, but it was supposed to be. Then there were flashing lights from outside that turned out to be a firetruck. It stopped right in front of my building, and because of where and how the windows are it felt like it was in the room with me. There was no siren, and, as far as I could tell, no fire anywhere, but the lights kept flashing, even when a fireman got out of the truck and walked to the back of it. He opened some sort of hatch back there, leaned inside, and fiddled around for a while, then walked around to the other side of the truck, and then back to the hatch again. He seemed so close to me. I was standing in front of the window in a nightgown in the middle of the night, and I thought that if he could see me he might think I was a ghost. Right then it seemed like the whole night was a ghost. After several minutes he shut the hatch, walked back to the front of the truck, got in, and drove away, lights still flashing, siren still off. I went to bed.

Last night it suddenly started raining because the weather man is a liar. It was heavy and there was some shrieking from the street, and then thunder. The music from the ice cream truck continued for a while, but the rain got even heavier and forced it to give up. Now I'm not sure if I'm glad or sad that we decided not to go. I would have probably been coming up the steps from the subway just as it started, I would have walked into the room with a jacket draped over my head, and I would have been dripping wet. Michael would have looked up from the newspaper and smirked at me. Michael would have been perfectly dry, because he always beats me by ten or fifteen minutes. Now I've made myself sad that we decided not to go, but I guess the season of rainy Wednesday nights is only beginning.

Last night I stayed home and pushed furniture around some more. My living room, if it can be called that, is like a furniture garden, with unexpected shelves and cabinets and chests and chairs sprouting up in unexpected places. It is a wild furniture garden with boxes for weeds, filled with winding paths that change every day.

Tonight I am anxious and I want to go out, but tonight I have no money and no ideas good enough to rope anyone else into. Tomorrow night I'll have some money and some frenzy, and something great will happen, because I'll make it happen. Everything is so simple suddenly, and I love it.