I like thinking about writing. I like thinking of NOTHING but writing. I’m odd that way. I’ve mentioned before my catlike preference of familiar surroundings and habits that let the thoughts grow easily, undisturbed. What that says about me, you’ll have to figure out. I’m too content just letting that aspect of me be me.

I’ve been dealing with a lot, lately. Case in point, a bathroom no longer worthy of the name (for now, at least.)

When I moved from the apartment in Brooklyn that I’d lived in for 26 years, the remembering of the new phone number, address and zip were disconcerting. No, I lie. They were earthshakingly upsetting. Like trying to recover from a stroke. The stuff you’d known reliably and without thinking—forever—were no longer part of your personal reality. Took me a long time to get over it.

And then there’s technology.

One forgets, when a thing becomes second nature, how distressing the learning curb can be. So much more to understand. New terminology that isn’t exactly instinctive (what the eff is a widget, anyway?) New buttons to push. New cables to figure out. New this, new that. Yikes.

In a very short time, I’ve found myself having to learn the whatevers of a new laptop…iPhone…MiFi…camera…Vimeo…YouTube…Twitter…Facebook…my portfolio website…two blogs (this one and the-spiritkeeper.com). My bed-buddy, the analog tape recorder, is like an old friend that asks nothing of me: The right touch, and he snuggles sweetly. The iPhone is a joy…very instinctive (and I ported my old phone number here at the house, so I have the number that has been burned into my sentimental brain for umpty years.) The MiFi is miraculous (this post, posted, is a gift of that technology. Here’s just some of the stuff that’s been built into the learning curve (a photo taken by the iPhone, because I left the camera’s cable back at the other house.)

The overabundance of access codes and passwords is another yikes. I have to keep a file at my fingertips on the laptop in order to remember them all. Some days, I just wish I had nothing at all to remember. Puts a big damn crimp in a writer’s style when words are all she wants. And yet. And yet….

What was my name again?