The fridge is officially deemed irredeemable. It sucks that the landlord does not provide the fridge.
It was so cold today. The wind was the main issue. But the day went well.
We will have visitors this weekend, but the apartment is an absolute disaster. Q and I ordered pizza and watched some old Sherlock Holmes. I fell asleep. But that was fun!
I'm writing the above because there is a piece of fake work due tomorrow. I hate fake work.
p.s. fw is done. but what a waste of time. I resent.
The pine tree outside my window was in turmoil a moment ago. But now it is still. The storm has passed. A brief and unproductive storm. Sound of rain drops from eaves. The light is clear and golden.
The secret of power nap: podcast + alarm + bus (optional).
The fridge went dead the other day, but today when I was in the kitchen pondering about how to get rid of the food, I was suddenly aware of the noise. The fridge was back to life. So freakish.
All these months I've been shortening my writings, I realize. I don't quite understand this economy. It's not mine. But perhaps there is an art in making long story short. To make all the sleepless nights lose their flesh and see what remains.
It's frigid at 3 o'clock. My hands were stiff. The colors of these Polaroids are not quite the same as the originals, because I don't have a scanner, and because colors always look washed out on Vox.
so the to-do list I just made is three feet long, but at least I have one. I've been hiding in a cloud of avoidance ever since I ate turkeys. (yes, I got into more than one.) but turkeys are not to blame. it takes a while to reconcile with one's lot, so to speak. and when one is re-conciliating, one cannot simultaneously strive. one is not built that way. does one ever reconcile? does one reconcile too much or too little? does one reconcile too much where little is called for and too little when much is called for?
I've been watching a lot of old B&W movies lately. They all involve murder. I just realized that Hitchcock's Sabotage is based on Conrad's Secret Agent. The latter is my favorite of Conrad's novels. The film is not as haunting as the novel, largely because there is no detective (maybe there is--I read it many years ago--but it's not important) in the novel. The line that has stuck in my mind goes something like this: life does not stand much looking into. That is the horror: there is no detective in life.
I ate my first papaya today. I must have had papaya before, but this is the first one I cut open. It's odd that I have never had one before this. Even this one was given to me by someone else. I don't have anything against papayas. In fact this is the first time I've noticed the faint aroma and the mild favor of its flesh. Its blandness is intriguing. I think I've never had it before because it falls somewhere between a melon and a pear and therefore through a mental crack. Now it has finally found a place in my symbolic order.
What else? I am tired, despite a day spent in doing almost nothing. I bought things like toothpaste and supplements at the drug store. I do not like my own recorded voice or moving image. I am running out of This American Life episodes for the road.
Is it supposed to rain this hard in this time of the year?
I've been utterly unproductive today. I don't know why. It's not as though I don't have a lot to do. I'm aware of that. Still.
Something strange happened. I was watching "Speckled Band" (Sherlock Holmes) on Hulu while eating dinner. (Don't ask me why.) If you've seen this show, you'll know that there is a scene in the beginning in which the two young women, one of whom is subsequently murdered, look at the window (it's a dark and stormy night, of course) and see behind the glass the face of an animal, perhaps an ape. Just when I was watching this, I heard a noise coming from my window, which was very close to my desk. I turned to look. To my surprise, I saw a pair of eyes looking back at me! It was the big orange tabby who used to come and climb the tree in the yard. We looked at each other. For some reason I thought of turning off the light, as if I could see it better that way, as if a cat is a luminous thing in the dark. It wasn't, and it was trying to jump off by first adjusting its position on the very narrow window sill. Perhaps the height required negotiation even for a cat. I was a little worried and went out to see if it was alright. I saw nothing. But the whole experience was a little uncanny.
On our way we literally crossed the line between autumn and winter.
Riding in a car makes me sick so I took a pill both ways. Maybe that's why I feel a little more than a little dazed.
I'm at a point where things seem confused. And tomorrow is Monday, but I seem to have gone to a faraway place.
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