Each day of this week has felt like Friday. Monday felt like Friday, as if I'd already spent a week on the job. Tuesday felt like Friday. Today felt like Friday. Tomorrow, at least, is Thursday with the built in consolation of a long weekend coming with just one more stumbling actual Friday to hurdle. Had I been six hours into the flight to Asia right now, I'm not sure what I would have been thinking, would I have been whining with six hours to go before I arrived? Maybe not.
A long flight and a long working Fourth of July weekend in a far and mythic place that I've only heard about, with the chance, if not the time, for photographs. What's the beef? Four days. There are people in our company who's jobs require they spend a month at a time on the road, generally on a single continent, but sometimes complete circumnavigation, a one day meeting here, a two day meeting there, time zone after time zone. I'd be a fool to complain. Six days notice. Big deal. Pack tie and jacket, camera and lens, tip my hat and keep my mouth shut. Please.
I'm looking over my living room as I write and wondering what has changed since I moved into
this place almost a year ago. I mentioned to a friend at work that I'd not slept well last night - I awoke around three and it took me some time to drop back off. Big deal. - and so I really really really should do something about my bed. And she looked at me for a short surprised moment and suggested I might have just the smallest little twiddly bit of procrastination in me over this bed business, didn't I think? How long had I been talking about fixing the bed? A year? And I thought, shit, that's right. Bad enough not to have done anything about it, but complaining about it, I don't know. I don't think I'd hang around someone who acted like that. Do this, do that, on and on, over and over, forever. I did look at some beds last weekend, though. Really. This weekend I'll fix it and describe my solution here after the weekend is over. Fix it. Buy another. Sleep on the floor. Something. Anything.
I'm trying to think if this has always been my pattern. I think maybe yes. My current thought has been
to pick one or two things and really do them, here or at work. Let everything else fall apart, if I have to, buying a bed, cleaning up the living room, but consciously choose one or two tasks and do them through to their logical end. If they have an end. Or they're logical. Choose things to which I'm attracted, of course, no need to choose a hair shirt, but pick them and do them. This journal is one. I don't take it all that seriously, or, at least I tell myself I don't take it all that seriously (which is probably an excuse for not doing it all that well) but I photograph and I write most every day, six days out of seven and that meets the criteria, I think. Journal as life raft. I should have done this when I was younger.
(I deleted a long paragraph here where I dribbled off into hopeless gibberish and I just don't have the time or the energy to do a proper rewrite. Rickety as this all seems, I still want to post it tonight. Writing a journal as an antidote for what? For the first time I'm seriously thinking a journal can chronicle a descent into babbling senility. Mine.)
"You were a dumb fuck and a procrastinator both," pronounced St. Peter at the gate.
"Yeah. I know. It took me a while to figure it out. By the way, what are the beds like here? Do angels even sleep? Or take photographs?"
"Angels?" asked Peter with a less than pleasant laugh. "Photographs?"