Never enough minutes in a day to match all the little jars with the right seeds; the friendly ants don't come around here no more. It's like decentralized greek myth around here -- no one god is ordaining my twelve labours, and anyway they're already far too proliferate, and nobody's writing down who's running away with whom as well as Ovid used to. SLB was having a bad night. Her sweeties were over here to watch BtVS, and then they left, and they're not around to see how much that hurts her. Then she and I looked at tarot packs online and it wasn't so bad.
Today was like a real day at work, as opposed to the mad rush against the insuperable in which I've been engaged since July. I mean real day at work in terms of the relaxing boredom today bought me. I spent at least part of it cleaning house, setting up a database of knowledge about the particular product line I support. Given my history, it frightens me that I could thereby make myself obsolete in this job: by democratizing these tech-notes, I'm losing one of the few edges I had over my more reliable and productive colleagues. On the other hand, the busy work of cutting and pasting a hundred FAQs into a common space is a duple sign of my productivity: what I am making visible is the work I have kept more or less private for two months, when everybody wondered what the hell I was doing.
I tend to imagine that you all want me to write about royal blue velvet and silver inkwells and Peace roses, but there were too many people asking for spare change outside my office, and the weather is getting so much colder. Although all my clothes are looking tatty (and some of them, notably my pants, are noticeably too small on me these days), I am finding it difficult to covet any more clothing. As if it weren't enough of a hassle determining exactly what to covet to begin with.
On the Art of the Covet: It is difficult for me to covet clothes sometimes, because I do not have the kind of body that goes with the clothes I covet. Now please don't confuse this with a poor body image -- it's not quite the same thing. You see, I'm 176 cm tall, and it's just not sufficient to look willowy. No matter how thin I am (and I'm a pretty skinny guy) I'll never have the height factor right. So those jeans, scrotumtightened and slick as they are, never look quite to scale. Those three-button jackets which shriek late nineties -- I have always wanted to look good in those. Instead I look a bit like a kid playing dress-up. Indeed, I know what i look good in: schoolboy outfits, academic-looking tweed, size-small band tee-shirts untucked over the black loose-cut jeans. At the very least, though, I have managed to fool a great number of people into thinking that I am quite tall, since I carry myself with a awkwardness studied from my tall friends. Also, I take a lesson from forced perspective and never stand so close to somebody that he or she can tell how I measure up. However, I will always have the sense that there is another me, a six-footer (at least) who can wear practically look anything and look svelte and strapping in it. I wonder if permanent prosthetic stilts would help.