The clock on the dash read 6:31 when I started the car after loading the last cleaning supplies and the vacuum cleaner. Interim HQ (aka The Apartment) is not as clean as I could make it, but it is as clean as my store of energy made possible. Whether or not it is clean enough for dreaded assistant apartment manager Leslie will be determined when she gets around to her walkthrough. I know that when I dismantled the interior of the refrigerator to scour the corners I found bits of glass that I never broke. Similarly, a rag on a stick shoved between the oven and the counter pulled forth food remains originating in the early Pleistocene—which (believe it or not) predates my time in residence—including fully fossilized ramen noodles. My effort was an honest one. On the other hand, someone possibly vaguely resembling a face I have seen in mirrors did spill coffee on the carpet by the kitchenette. Maybe more than twice. Maybe that does not constitute “excessive staining” for which dreaded Leslie will look. As for the discoloration by the front door, well, damn it, I had to stand somewhere while taking off my shoes.
The clock on the dash read 6:50 when I pulled the mighty Scion into the garage of the new facility housing Stikmantic Intergalactic HQ (aka The Townhouse). Between now and then I have managed unloading the car, a cold supper and this. Plus dozing seated on a folded chair. The evening ahead promises a few minutes noodling on my bouzouki as prelude to a hot shower. Anything more than that will be frosting. Tomorrow brings with it a start on the task of unpacking and arranging my cult objects and cargo. Tomorrow, the several personalities will confer about tactical occupation of this space. Likely there will be much weighing of delight in open space against surrender to acquisition of convenient furniture and other forms of predatory domestic matter. Tonight, I wish I knew in which of the twenty-seven boxes of books I packed Tristram Shandy, because suddenly I want very much to reread it.