Thursday, May 16, 2013

... No Navy, I presume?

Evening. The two pictures from tonight have been posted into a blank slate, almost. When I wake maybe I will feel like writing in a way that suits them. The pictures are likable, I think. The new camera does make me feel cool. Have I said that?

The one below is worth clicking on. Trust me. I mean, why not? You're already here aren't you?

Morning. The later into the evening I stay awake, tempting my fate, the more difficult it is for me to sleep at all. It is a special type of nervousness, the apprehension towards sleep. I was up well past 10pm last night. So, of course, I arose at 4am, having slept lightly or not at all. It is like science. 

I have been sitting here and staring at the screen for about five minutes now. The sentences above accomplish nothing. But this one depends on them, so they will stay.


Coffee. I have begun the process, again.

Going to the store last night, eating dinner there. Sushi. Afterwards, shopping for more food, without knowing why. Two thick steaks and a competing chicken breast, a bottle of wine. There is a temptation to drink the bottle of wine this morning, free from care. It has been a very long time. What a great luxury it is to lie in bed and watch a film in the morning, drinking a bottle of wine, alone or otherwise.

... as if time didn't matter.

It requires doing much nothing, practiced often, for one to become any good at it. Time is like the writing of sentences, in that way. There is a special luxury to life passing slowly, to allow it to pass before you, hung in a suspended state of leisure. Only the very wealthy in spirit can do it well, or for very long. Its prerequisite is the careful study of household pets: cats, dogs at their best.

The humorless, and anyone who bores easily of contentedness, should always be kept from power. They are a threat to everything that is good and noble. That is my eternal wisdom, free for you.

Chatting with Rachel last night, discussing my age, Oh my..., I will be 45 in October. It appears monstrous on the screen, the number, taunting me with its greatness. That is a thing that is always guaranteed to let one sleep well and sound: discussing the coming crisis of years.

I opened a new bag of sugar this morning. It seems implausible that I will devour it, but I must. Like a hill of ants I am obligated to these newfound crystals, to the very concept of colony. The spoon drops into the bag, there is no matching sound at the cup, save that of a tiny army's marching.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a fall,
Beneath the music from a farther room
  So how should I presume?

-T.S. Eliot