This seems almost coherent to me. Can you tell it's before 9 a.m.?

I spent last night lamenting the facet of our legal system what I've heard most aptly described as barbaric. And I know that part of why I wanted this blog was as a forum, of sorts, for doing that very thing. Preferably loudly, clearly, and eloquently. But it's before 9 a.m., and that's just too early for that.

Instead, I have sleepy intimate reverie.

I am currently sitting, finishing my breakfast, in the War Room (as in, Gentlemen, there's no fighting in the War Room!), which is the affectionate name for our study. The sun is coming bold through the windows and the whole room is benefiting. Now, I reiterate that it is just before 9 a.m. Chris and I have a firm policy of sharing our meals together whenever humanly possible--eating the same things, in the same place, and preferably while only engaging in that, though exceptions have been made to nibble at breakfast fruit while listening to "Wait, Wait. . . Don't Tell Me!" on NPR, on Sunday mornings, or to eat chips and salsa (or even occasionally dinner proper) with the laptop on the table to bring us the audio of our hockey games. Generally, though, we share our meals, together, at the table, with music. Now that I'm not in school, however, and he has to be at his first class at 5 after 9 a.m. (I reiterate that it is only just before 9 a.m.) breakfast is necessarily earlier than I am quite awake. So here I am finishing my breakfast in the War Room (as in, . . .).

Valiantly though I try to be up and conscious and settled enough to eat at 8 or 8:30, I have yet, this semester, to be able to be at the table at the beginning or end of breakfast(version Chris.0). Or even my own, really. I make it out there, share fruit, and am left with toast in the chilly kitchen.

So! With no beautiful fellow in the kitchen to keep me there, and Roy Orbison having stopped singing on the speakers, it's to the sunny War Room we go.

Now, I have something of a restless spirit, and a fetish for physical upheaval, so the thought of moving--anywhere, really--is sometimes quite appealing, despite loving this apartment. The urge to move into just a different apartment in the same complex has been pointlessly strong. Oh, not pointlessly; maybe with the southern facing windows in the kitchen and living room, rather than the bedroom and War Room, I think, so that plants on the Verandah (which comes off of the living room) would have a better chance. Or maybe to a corner apartment--those have more windows altogether (with an extra in, I believe, both the kitchen and bedroom--veeery nice). I love windows. And there's just a wonder in new space, a fresh start with arrangement, with organization. Reinvention!

Now, switching apartments without any good reason would be a hassle, so the will to rearrange--or switch--rooms becomes my next best hope. Speaking of big North facing windows, why not put the bed in the living room, and wall it with the enormous bookshelves and a few screens? Then make the bedroom the media room. Well, there are a lot of good reasons why not, but the urge is there. A patio with plants and big sliding glass doors in the bedroom is a compelling reason why to, though. Chris is very hot on the sunshine in the bedroom window, early in the morning, though. Which I like, too, but not so much in the middle of summer when it means being too hot to stay in bed at 7 a.m without closing the blinds (which I object to) (this, though, makes a South facing' living room' an attractive option. . .).

The next option is to switch the War Room (technically the Master Bedroom, according to the floorplan) with the bedroom, on the same end of the apartment. It's just a little closer to the Sunlight, and it doesn't have a closet directly opposite the windows, so the bed could be across from them rather than under them (Sun on the feet and in the room, rather than in the eyes). Which is, also, appealing. The phone jack is in here, though, and Lancelot's bathroom (the one with the bad shower pressure, broken toilet, and litter box) is attached and inside the War Room's door. So, Chris wisely notes, no shutting him out at night, if he's decided 3 a.m. is the time to bone up on his face clawing, hair standing-on, and bladder tromping (which he often does). I think a wood screen could solve that, though. He's not a climbing cat, it would give him something other than carpet to claw at, and a folding screen is always an attractive addition to a home.

No dice? Ah, well.

In all of that, I suppose the important point made is that, now, in the Winter-Spring transition (as opposed to in the dead of Summer), the kitchen/dining room and living room are properly chilly, rather than just a cooler alternative to a Sun-baked War Room. In the Semantic Battle, then, the War Room is become the warmer alternative to the cold front. So, with my toast, and the last section of the Blood Orange (all of which I have since finished--it is now half-past 9 a.m.), I flew South to the cozy, toasty, toast-filled study, where bright, hot sunlight is pouring in and warming my happier feet. And illuminating my abandoned, messy desk. Which I should clean. Luckily, today I have the better alternative that is packing and readying for a few days in SoCal! The SPaM conference (and my mother's, on the road between here and the San Diego conference site) await.