I used to think that we can be subtly distinct people when we find
ourselves in different places. I am one person in NY, different one in SF,
another one with my parents, a slightly different yet in Canada. When I’m
in London I retrieve mental state sitting dormant from the first time years
ago, Tokyo will probably remind me of nameless pathways I used daily that I
thought I forgot, whenever I’m in Turkey, the forgotten language they
taught us in primary school comes back and I remember words I had no idea I
knew. My first time in Italy was melancholy, and now it will come back every time I would find myself surrounded by their beautiful architecture. My Russian by default deteriorated to terrible, but improves as if by magic when I’m with people who speak it well, and takes on strong accent when I’m with people
from my hometown who have it, too. When I’m in a new place, especially
alone, it’s a bit like being a baby, creating a new mental state where none
existed before, and that’s exhilarating.
Now I’m finding that there’s similar disconnect between work and home,
between weekend and Monday (or Tuesday, as the case may be after a holiday
weekend). Absent long plane ride to delineate the boundary, it clashes, and
then I forget things. I forgot everything this morning: wallet, bag with
L’s food, my own breakfast, check for the daycare. I wore wrong shoes and
got soaked in this city’s ancient infrastructure that’s no longer capable of
draining after rain (wet feet for hours). Granted, I was up at 6am,
and had to get up at 3am, too, but still. what other explanation can there
be?
Isn’t this why people hate Mondays?

Cleaning leaves and pine needles from the gutter felt so satisfying.
Fully recognizing how bourgeois this thought is, but I just want a tiny summer cabin in the woods to go to and to work on. Like this one, or maybe half the size.