Sunday is February 28th. It's not a leap year, so that is the last day of the month. It's also the day that I have promised to be cleaned out of my apartment. I'll miss my underground parking privileges, but otherwise my new domicile is a certified upgrade. It's still quite humble, but if I look to the east out of my office window I can see the Cascades on a clear day. In the evening I can walk out on the deck and count the stars until I run out of prime numbers.
I'm enjoying Neville Shute's On the Beach. I probably shouldn't use a word like "enjoy" to describe my feelings towards a tale describing the last days of human existence as a radiation clouds sweeps the Earth, but there it is. There is an underlying sadness running throughout On the Beach, because the remaining citizens of the planet know that they have approximately three months until they start to die of radiation poisoning. Some cannot face the prospect and blur reality with a steady diet of alcohol. Others spend their time planning for a nonexistent future, but the future is always nonexistent until we start to fill it with life experiences and then it ceases to be the future.
After this weekend is over I will officially be an ex-resident of the Royal Manor apartments. I can then begin to feel much more settled in my little domicile in northeast Seattle. I'll have more time to start catching up on movies I have missed. (I recently watched "District 9," but I don't have the stomach to create a review at this time.) And then there is the endless task of organizing my library, but I live for that. You would think after shelving and alphabetizing books all evening at work I wouldn't relish doing the same task at home, but you would be wrong.