Spinning wheel

Early evenings are most pleasant here, at Vic Uni. Especially with southerlies bringing the wet and cold of Antarctica. The silence of the floors, sporadically broken by a murmuring lift, sometimes the sound of closed door reminds me that I am not all alone here. Fourth floor is high enough to separate me from today's reality. The blue-green harbour city life looms in the distance. My mind is quiet as if with a click of the door handle my world was sucked in by linguistics. I like those evenings when I can give myself some more knowledge. I am slowly putting on layers and layers of language on me.
My state of mind is only recent. Coming back to New Zealand (I think of it as 'mine' and it is such in a sense - I acquired it in my dreams as an idealised life here within a nanosecond of spontaneous decision) means starting anew again and again and again.
The last five months have been a series of cycles, drastically ending and beginning. There is and there was. There is my own space with lots of sun and a big wooden wardrobe. There's no work. There's room to live and there is work. There is work and suddenly there is no space that belongs to me. There is no wooden wardrobe and there is no bed to sleep in. There is romance. There is romance and there is no space. There is suddenly space and there is no romance. There is no work but there is a new space to live. There is a space and there is work. There is work that I have been dreaming of. There is a cat. The cat happens suddenly,all black with a tiny white spot. There is the cat and there is no romance. There is a space to work. There is peace and quiet. For now. What a spinning wheel it is.