The Remains of the Weekend

Time is funny, elusive and mercurial. Thirty minutes can mean the difference between the expanse of an evening laid out before you, or the desperate last hurrah before an inevitable surrender to a sensible bedtime.

To look at this room I live in, (and make no mistake it is a room, with a W.C., but a single room all the same) one wouldn't be able to discern that cleaning and organizing had been the sole occupation of its sole occupant today.

There's dust everywhere, belying the multiple wipe downs and dry moppings of various surfaces. Dirt and grime, even though there was scrubbing and spray and misting and sponging.

Dishes were washed, trash taken out, counters cleaned, boxes unpacked, items repacked and stored out of sight, shelves reorganized, papers filed, laundry folded, and more.

But to walk in a look around, there wouldn't be a clue. Somehow these small living quarters have achieved a discordant homeostasis, and manage to look dirty, unkempt, cluttered and wrecked. There's no indication as to the immense and intense effort and thought (for it requires massive concentration and planning for me to organize anything) that made up my whole day today.

I believe I could have spent the day away from this place, rather than ensconced in it, and achieved the same effect.

This feels somehow representative of a greater and, depressingly, constant theme in my life: no matter how great the effort, the observable and appreciable results are consistently minor. And easily undone. I have never been able to strike the proper balance between working hard and focusing correctly. Whether it's physical health, mental health, skill development, whatever, it just doesn't go anywhere. Except for the recurring Nowhere Fast--my standard destination and acceleration.

It's been like this for several decades, so I fear I'm stuck with it.

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I inadvertently liked in an earlier post. I have been to more than one bar. There's a place called Rick's. And if you're worth a lick you'll know that everybody comes there sooner or later.

At Rick's yesterday, stopping on my way home. I witnessed two things.

Thing One: I ordered an mixed app plate. It was all fried--gross. But it was also the only thing that had vegetables on it. Compromise. The platter was enormous, and some folks at the end of the bar (seemed like regulars) commented on it.

I offered to split it with them, which engendered a curious set of responses. One guy seemed almost offended, asking if I had assumed that he was angling for some of my food. One of his companions said my offer was probably the nicest thing she had ever heard anyone say at a bar. I just noted that the amount of food was enormous, and I was certainly not going to finish it.

Thing Two: Quite suddenly, the bar began to fill up with people in feather boas and plastic fedoras. They had slips of paper and in a matter of 15 minutes a second bartender appeared because it was Pub Crawl time.

Now, apparently, this Pub Crawl (one of two occurring that day, per the bartender) was for charity. None of the participants I spoke to seem to be aware of what charity they were supporting, but all seemed very enthusiastic about their support. From what I could glean, some organizer makes a deal with some local bars for discounted drinks. Participants in the Crawl buy a wristband and commence to drinking and wandering about.

There are teams, and some type of contests as well. (Who can get the drunkest? I don't know.)

It was an intense experience. I would have liked to stay longer, just to witness the deranged but familiar insanity of it all. However, my parking meter was just about up.

And to think, all this time I've been selfishly drinking for my own amusement, when I could have been guzzling philanthropically. I'm ashamed.

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I gave a friend a birthday card this week. I'm pretty sure I watched him throw it away in front of me later the same day.

Ironically, one of the boxes of my crap from back East arrived this past week. It contained an entire shoebox filled with various holiday and birthday cards I've received the last few years.

I received one Christmas card this year. I've spent two weeks shuffling it into various piles around my apartment, trying to make myself throw it away.

I have often wished I was much less sentimental than I am. It doesn't do me much good, and worse, I certainly don't get any credit for it. I'm often accused of the opposite--of being harsh, callous, cold, brutal. What's the use in a box full of old cards? I think I give them more meaning than the senders intend.

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I wanted to sit outside in the sun today. My neighbor, nice enough guy, likes to refinish cars on weekends. The fumes of primer and various other chemicals make it hard to enjoy the otherwise pristine air of this place. I also suspect that once side of my car is going to end up a different color in the next couple of months--slowly accumulating the paint dust that's drifting the 10 feet across the back driveways.

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This is the part where I could post about all the things that are bumming me out. But who wants to read that?

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This entry was brought to you by Mt. Beanaminjaro and LB3, assisted by two afghans, with tech support from a temporarily purloined MacBook from work. I still don't grok this OS, but I love wi-fi and a laptop.