CAN I JUST SHARE . . .

My office is finally clean. I can see the surface of my desk. The extra books are off the floor and piled neatly -- studiously, one might even say -- on top of my low bookcase. I look like a book collector -- thrill! My files are organized and put away in crisp new file folders ... this despite the fact that a wheel snapped off my filing cabinet, and it's now precariously propped up until I can find the exact same filing cabinet somewhere. I even bought a dorky wrapping paper holder, and it's now hanging nicely behind my closet door. Lord, I love The Container Store. Pictures are neatly displayed, mail is sorted, bills are ready to be paid, and I can finally sit in here and work on Bob without feeling like I need to flee to the comfort of the couch in the other room.

Chick music is playing in the background, and I'm taking just a moment to rest and relax before some lady friends come over for a foodfest. The quiet is scary sometimes. Not because I don't enjoy it -- I love the quiet, and crave it more often than not. But the thoughts that I'm allowed to think now ... the good, the bad and the really bad.

I suppose I could think about the art pieces I want to acquire and hang on my living room walls. Big, solid, abstract splashes of color and shapes by Paul Klee and Kandinsky, and perhaps a pencil sketch of pigs by Picasso. I love pigs. A panoramic blue-toned photograph of the lower New York City skyline, taken from across the Brooklyn Bridge and seen through some old wooden pilings on the waterfront. And I have to get that watercolor painting of Red Square matted and framed so I can finally hang it in my kitchen. Thirteen years ago, I picked it up for a pittance of rubles on the streets of Moscow -- I'm surprised it has survived so long with nary a smudge on it.

I suppose I could think about when I'm going to bake the Mexican pecan bars, or when to start cooking the medium-spicy curry, borrowed from Mrs.G's collection of, like, 500 curry boxes. What up with DAT? Vegetables need to be chopped, meat needs to be seared, chocolate needs to be melted, oven needs to be preheated. I can't wait to inhale the craziness that's going to ensue inside my house. Soooo delicious.

I suppose I could think about the strange harmonies spewing forth from the Indigo Girls' "Rites of Passage." I remember trying to emulate these tones, these chords, this spirit in my high school a cappella group. Naturally, we hit it all together my senior year, the last concert of the year, my final hurrah. Go figure. Law school a cappella groups weren't quite the same, preparing a mere four weeks for three nights of shows, never to sing together again. The harmonies were simple, the words were trite, no personality or character was necessary. Those moments fulfilled a momentary craving, but I wonder when I'll be able to sing like I used to again.

I suppose I could think about people. Do you need me to tell you that there are lots of different kinds of people in this world? Lately, I've been thinking a lot about people who think they know others so well, who assume a closeness and intimacy, and even exhibit it physically. Meanwhile, the other party is sitting there thinking "you don't know me. You don't know anything about me, yet there you are thinking you do, thinking you can read me, thinking you can gauge my level of return affection for you. And by the way, why are you hugging me so closely, as if we are related?" It's strange. We all want intimacy and closeness with other human beings. Or maybe even just one other human being would suffice. But the artificial creations of relationships inside our own minds are so different from what is actually out there. Me, I veer towards the opposite extreme: I assume a distance until the other party reaches toward me first. Then I allow myself to believe in friendship and love and accountability. But I see others offering hugs, arms around the shoulders, familiar touches, knowing looks or nods after the first, second, even third acquaintance. To be truthful, it annoys me. I feel possessive of my friends and jealous for them and for the personal space that is being trod upon. I feel annoyed that this person is so familiar and knowing towards those she knows not at all. But I also see that she has little else in her life, and if this is her way of connecting with people, or even just one person, I suppose I can't denigrate her for being insecure, for aren't we all -- aren't I -- largely driven and motivated by our insecurities? Strange, the needs of people.

I suppose I could think about the fact that my feet are cold, but I'm too lazy to walk all the way to my room to get a pair of socks. I suppose I could think about what to eat for brunch, but I'm too comfortable right now to rustle through my kitchen. I suppose I could read a book, but I'm kind of tired and might fall asleep in the middle of a really good chapter, and then I'd have to read it all over again just to get back into the swing of the story. I suppose I could think about my health, but ... I don't want to.

But how opportune: a large piece of lint has stuck itself to my contact lens, so I must move myself forth, lest I go blind.