Can I tell you something about my building's elevator? It makes me a bona fide risk-taker. Were it made of rotten wood and twine from an archaeological dig, it couldn't possibly be more creaky than it is now. Can I note also that this is my second entry today, which doesn't bode well for the other writing I've been doing. Not at all.
Things forebodingly missing from the elevator at 840 Van Ness Avenue:
1. A placard denoting inspection and safety certification.
2. A fully operational door.
3. The sense that the elevator is confident in its ability to defy gravity.
Logically, I'm not all that sound when it comes to this elevator. I feel fine when the elevator is descending. But the dread in my soul is palpable when the elevator is on its way upward. I guess it has to do with the addition of -- rather than the subtraction of -- feet, meters, stories to fall. It also seems more rumbly and jumbly when projecting skyward.
Generally I skip the elevator altogether. But tonight I'm physically exhausted for no real reason and thus lugging many pounds of laundry up and down six flights of stairs seems untenable. But all that is over and I've lived to blog it. So I'm going to fold the aforementioned laundry and pass out.
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