sushi in empty escalators

Tonight I went out for a first date, which was also the first time I'd had sushi (well, just the vegetable sort, if that counts) in far too long. Lately I like taking the subway because they've been remodeling one of the escalators in the stop nearest my house, Davis Square. I keep meaning to take my camera so I can get a picture of the escalator roped off and gutted of its stairs, which are piled up against a wall near the Charlie Card machines. I'm always moved by images of transition like that--once, in Tuscaloosa, they were resteepling a church, and I remember the eerie gray-white of the steeple stretched across the ground on a foggy, full-moon night. 

Despite the many hours I spent at the coffee shop today, little writing was accomplished. I updated my resumé and worked on a piece for the Albums of 1999 retrospective that PopMatters is doing, but that was the low height of my productivity. Later I had a wonderful conversation with someone fantastic who's helping me (hopefully) find funding sources so I can leave my job and write and publish and travel for a few  months. She's much more connected than I could ever hope to be, and I'm grateful for her help, wherever this takes me. 

Now I'm in the liminal space between taking the sleeping pill and said sleeping pill kicking in, which always makes me feel this quiet sense of urgency despite the fact there's nothing I must do now but curl up with my cat and fall asleep in my new sundress.