Monday,
February 11, 2002
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watches without time
"Dans l'adversité de nos
meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait
pas."
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it's Monday I need to get an earlier start But I don't. I keep rolling over. Then, when I'm out of the shower and drying my hair, I glance at my watch and think that mabye I'm doing better than I thought. But no, my watch has either just stopped about fifteen minutes ago or stopped at this hour last night. Time for a new battery. I paw through a drawer full of cheap watches. Only one is working. It is an advertising give-away and it is a little too big for my wrist. I'm sticking all the dead watches in my backpack for a possible trip to some place to get new batteries when I find another one, working. It's a plain black Swatch that I bought in the airport in Australia because the band on my favorite had broken. It looked better than the one I'd taken along as a spare.
With the right time on my wrist, I head out to work. There is a company broadcast meeting at ten and I'm calling in to an industry working group meeting at 11. I listen some to the company meeting and try to prepare for the other one. I'm trying to look at data models and I can't remember the terminology and the meaning of the graphics and my books are at home and what I find online makes it hard to understand and the model doesn't have attribute descriptions. In other words, I'm lost as usual. But I take everything in stride these days. I figure that I'll figure out what I'm doing or the time when it will matter will pass anyway.
In the afternoon, I start to want to play hooky in the worst way. Just take an hour of daylight and go walk the dog. Then get back to my duties. I promise! I wish I hadn't thought of it. Now it's all I can think of. I call my dogwalking buddy SuRu to see if she has taken Zoey for a walk. (She's taking off today for her birthday.) She isn't home. Oh. Well. I try to work. I even succeed a little, but there are certain things hanging over my head that rather than propelling me to get them done are holding me back. Must deal with that.
I go home in the evening and find FFP cooking some chicken Wellington, a prepared dish from the Cooper's meat market he's been patronizing. We open some Rosemount Cab/Shiraz. I eat some carrots and broccoli with dip. We watch TV. I dispose of a lot of the papers.
I thought more about the fate of the journal today and this evening. I read some journals where the entries are beautiful, well-crafted little essays. Did I mention that I subsisted (and we use the term ironically) on cheese today until the above recounted dinner? Laughing Cow. Then nachos. (Of course, there were the chips and the jalapenos. I did have a diet Dr. Pepper with those, too, so there was the chemical intake.) So, since I can't muster anything more interesting than my embarrassingly terrible diet, described poorly, well, who needs it? Should I add a paragraph on every cup of coffee I drink and what cup I use. (I favor one of my TMCM cups, actually.) No, I don't have anything profound to say. Nothing profound to photograph. I am not much of a wordsmith. As I've tried to edit January, I've seen how profoundly boring and, um, not profound it all is. It makes me sad. I want to write brilliant moving things with great insights. Maybe a journal is not the place to do that. For me. Maybe I can't really write anyway. So, once again, I don't tie the journal to the main page. I leave it behind a plain door off a back alley instead of just on a cul de sac. What I am going to do, though, is remove the admonition that people have to write me to find out what happened to the journal. Because only one person did. So what difference does any of it make? Do I owe that one person a look. Actually, at least two people mentioned it verbally. What about them?
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175
JUST
TYPING