Monday, August 20, 2012

Today slipped away from me. I'm not sure why. I take that back. I know why.

I woke up with the sun and even took a picture to prove those melon and blueberry soaked strokes that bled juicy streaks on cottony white clouds were real. The slipping happened still — probably, somewhere between oohing, ahhing, accidentally falling asleep again and waking up a couple of hours later. 

When I don't rise early everything slows down. Everything goes one or two or three hours later than it should. Which is fine, sometimes. Maybe on a Sunday? It's not fine when there's writing to do. So much writing to do. And when things get pushed back, my mind bottle-necks. Everything that's supposed to happen clogs in the world's narrowest vessel that exists somewhere between my eyeballs and the back of my brain. I get grouchy. I'm annoyed for no good reason and find countless ways to place guilt on anyone who brushes past. Luckily, T doesn't take that kind of shit.

Today I woke up and the sun rose. I blinked and the sun set. I went what felt like a million places (okay, realistically: the grocery store, a second grocery store and over to West London). I walked eight miles! I watched B finish a tiny yellow scarf for Osey the Monkey. I read. I took notes. I read some more. But nothing happened that was supposed to happen. 

Nothing, except, well, dinner.

The interview didn't get transcribed. The article didn't get written. The blog post is still simmering (not successfully), and I continued to put off calling the Federal Loan office. But someone who normally has no requests for dinner asked for a tart. And that, I'm pleased to report, got made. With pleasure.

The beginnings of a savory balsamic fig tart, with homemade pesto, goats cheese, asparagus and (not pictured) — parma ham + red onions

Everyone lately has been mentioning the passing of time. 

"How quickly this year's gone by." 

"August is nearly over!"

"I'm 23, for God's sakes," said my friend M. "What the hell am I doing?"

Hopefully, I hope, having fun. 

23 feels like ages ago and it's less than two years from me. Everything is speeding up. Except the things I'd like to have happen. My hair is speckled with gray now. It's not a bad thing. At 25, it's an ironically glamorous thing.  I now know what my aunts and uncles feel like when they see their younger neices and nephews at only Christmases. "Did you get taller?" They joke. Saying that feels better than feeling older. I'm beginning to realize what my dad says when he reminds me to enjoy this time.

How does it go so quickly? When did I start to notice? 

On days like today, when I resent a need for rest over work, for rest over words, I can't help but get dramatic. The sun rises and sets with and without me. 

Everything about today slipped away. Except the figs. And the goats cheese. And the pesto. And the pastry. Thank goodness, at least, for that.

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