Weekend debris
The weekend seems to have evaporated ahead of time. How can 48 hours have passed so quickly? I recall the euphoria of Friday afternoon, having needed this brake more so than many before.
I did begin one task, at the least. I began my letter to Pandora, and stopped after about 4 hours. I have retained only four lines of the first attempt. It is proving much more difficult than expected. I mean, it has been about 9 years since we last had any sort of communication, and after such distance... how can you bridge the silence and get back to what and how we exchanged. On Monday night, rattling back home on the overground, there seemed so much to say, which was perhaps due in part to the combination of the London Pride and the Drambuie. But when I sat at my desk, clicked the top of my ballpoint, hand poised on unruled paper... nothing came.
In a fit of frustration, I am going to try to engineer a nostalgic reminiscence, a kind of deliberate Proustian meditation. I shall put "Dark Therapy" on the CD player, clap the ear goggles on, lean back in my chair, pour a vodka and ginger ale mixer, and think back to 1995-6.
On another note, my experimentation with the world of the internet dating community has terminated in farcical circumstances. Actually, I've withdrawn in disappointment and boredom more than anything else. There have been minimal interesting responses to the lances I've thrown out, and I'm loathe to subject my eagerness to such iterative disappointment.
More to follow...
I did begin one task, at the least. I began my letter to Pandora, and stopped after about 4 hours. I have retained only four lines of the first attempt. It is proving much more difficult than expected. I mean, it has been about 9 years since we last had any sort of communication, and after such distance... how can you bridge the silence and get back to what and how we exchanged. On Monday night, rattling back home on the overground, there seemed so much to say, which was perhaps due in part to the combination of the London Pride and the Drambuie. But when I sat at my desk, clicked the top of my ballpoint, hand poised on unruled paper... nothing came.
In a fit of frustration, I am going to try to engineer a nostalgic reminiscence, a kind of deliberate Proustian meditation. I shall put "Dark Therapy" on the CD player, clap the ear goggles on, lean back in my chair, pour a vodka and ginger ale mixer, and think back to 1995-6.
On another note, my experimentation with the world of the internet dating community has terminated in farcical circumstances. Actually, I've withdrawn in disappointment and boredom more than anything else. There have been minimal interesting responses to the lances I've thrown out, and I'm loathe to subject my eagerness to such iterative disappointment.
More to follow...
posted by nickwong8 at 11:42 pm
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