October 9, 1998
Thinking of changing the journal to the above title, but I dunno. Each moment to be savored and thought through and lived. Truly lived, deep in the breath, width and length of it.
Life is so much a parallel existence. None of this serial stuff. I still marvel that anyone can capture experience in words... much less music and song.
Last night, by the time we actually went home, I was completely exhausted, heart, head, and body. Luckily, we had left over Swedish meatballs, so I just heated 'em up and we had dinner, with some frozen veggies that cooked quick in the microwave, a few garlic breadsticks that could be tossed into the toaster oven and came out hot and crisp.
It was only 8:30 when we were done, and John was watching pointless TV, so I went upstairs, took a hot bath with the sleep salts and then went to sleep, deeply. Dreamed of odd jobs as an angel.
Lots of things happening today at work, including a complete review of the test plan for our exe. Lots of stuff to be done on it and we're entering the testing phase a little bit into next week; but the scoping is done and we know exactly what needs to be added and how. So that's good. It's going to likely be a nice dictation session and then I'll be done.
Listening to Rent while I work and it's wrapping itself around my hindbrain slowly. Now I know why I knew every line in the musical when I went to see it, as I'm singing some odd lines here and there.
Got a few complex things finished while at work. Forgot about lunch, and if John forgets about dinner, I'm going to be upset. I should probably eat something else anyway. Lots of tea, got a great good sip of Morrocan Mint and it didn't pulverize into powder, the mint that is, and it was excellent with plenty of sugar.
Mark had an excellent addition to the stuff I wrote at the end of yesterday, though perhaps from the negative viewpoint. If any single talent N has no value, isn't worth the pursuit, the pain, then why would N+1 have any worth? And so one, slowly, one by one, stripping any individual of all their talents until nothing is left that is worth doing. Therefore, the initial assumption cannot be true, or else there is nothing left to live or work for. Each talent has worth.
Though, admittedly, I do my best to ask "How?" rather than, "Is it worth doing?" I try.
"Forget Regret or Life is Yours to Miss."
It's dark out, the lovely cool deep grey of a Seattle twilight, slowly, so slowly stretching into darkness, into night. The leaves outside rustle, small flips of light to dark, dark to light... my office is a dark cave, as I've removed all the lights and the monitor glows over papers, CD's, timers, reference books, the wooden ball of a curled up Buddhist monk in inward contemplation, his face in his hands his body curled into a perfect ball, the glittering of a mouse peering at me from around the monitor.
Music caresses my mind with odd melodies carrying agony and anger. Death and sudden redemption, odd touches of humor.
I'm tired, hungry, an aching hunger living just inside my backbone, and it empties all other sensation from my mind. Someone asks if they should wear sensible or stunning shoes, and I see her in stunning shoes, legs stark with muscle and grace under a dress that swirls, clings, then flows again around the shape of beauty.
And now the simple phrase, "I should tell you..." brings shivers down my spine.