.Monday, March 11, 2002

an art project

"Le hasard, c'est peut-être le pseudonyme de Dieu, quant il ne veut pas signer."
Théophile Gautier

which I would translate as "chance is God's pen name" or "chance is what it is called when God doesn't want credit" but which my quotation book translated "Chance is the pseudonym of God when he did not want to sign."

I work. I don't understand much of what is going on at a industry conference I call in to listen to. This is because I haven't read and understood everything that is going on and also because some people speak softly and also because I get distracted. But I get a little something out of it. Otherwise, I have no meetings. I try to work on my several projects which involve reviewing other people's estimates and proposals and specs and presentations. It isn't very engaging. The other good news, though, is that I don't get much e-mail. I think some people are taking vacation for spring break. I don't accomplish as much as I should given this nice quiet day.

I take a late lunch at Texas French Bread. (Cup of corn soup, chips, hot sauce, half a pimento cheese sandwich, ginger snap cookie, iced tea; even though you didn't ask.)

I also stop in at Bed, Bath and Beyond to check what they have in a drip through the lid thermal carafe coffee maker. I'm thinking of getting one for my parents for their anniversary. They only have the Krups one. I'll have to try Sam's, Costo, Target. I probably should have gotten the Mr. Coffee one at Mervyn's. You know what irritates me about B, B and B? They always have these 20% off anything coupons but it never covers Krups or something...whatever you are actually looking at..

Observations: chance changes every little thing every day. A nod this way or that causes things to change, a little explosion of emotion which, talked out, reveals a rotting core. Otherwise, the lid would have stayed on. Similarly, six months ago a grand plan of destruction succeeded beyond the dreams of the destroyers, I suspect. There was enormous intention and hate. And thousands of tiny bits of chance on which tens of thousands of lives changed. No different than any given day, except way more concentrated and dramatic.

At home, FFP has put together a nice spinach salad with onions and boiled eggs and bacon. A couple of bowls of that. A drink or two. Reading, TV. I help FFP with a WEB project, trying to explain stuff to him. Not, I don't think, doing that good a job. Of course, some of the stuff I probably don't understand myself so there is that.

Imagine yourself without it. Without what, you say? Oh, it's a little game I've been playing. I look at something and I say to myself...what if you didn't have that? I also think of things I used to own and whether I really miss owning them. Not just real junk I discarded but kind of cool things that I let go. It's all part of trying to make peace with my stuff.

One of you from the super secret order of readers of The Visible Woman wrote about my off-handed comment in yesterday's entry about giving up the journal. If I weren't recounting my meals, commenting on September 11 and other events obliquely, looking up quotes, doing my silly 'just typing' exercise, labeling, dating, linking, indexing, talking myself through my day, would I be writing a book or creating some other great work of art or saving the world? Or even cleaning up my office or cataloging my books and CDs? Well, no. I'd probably be dozing over some newspapers and watching some bad TV. So I guess I'll keep it up. For now. But it's still just between us chickens, OK?

JUST TYPING
Monday.
Fresh week.
New beginning?
Never.