Book of Lost Days
Apr. 30th, 2012 09:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thanateThe Book of Lost Days is where you keep all the things you would otherwise have done, in an alternate world without days spent ill, or asleep, or waiting around in airports; all those odd intersticial times that serve no particular function but to be gotten through. My Book is mainly composed of handfuls of partial days-- a few hours trimmed from my evening by a sick headache, an hour or two gloomily spent trying to ignore a waiting room TV. Today I spent a great deal of time asleep, alternately cat-napping and getting up to do something vague and useful; I've reached that ragged edge of not-quite-sick where I'm tired and faintly sore-throated, but not actually prevented from doing anything except stir up the motivation to do much.
This, and the presence of cute baby wrens (one of whom I had to shoo out of the back of my car the other day so I could close the door) leads to the sort of evening where I go around making PSEEP! PSEEP! noises, and Grauwulf comes by and attempts to drop a peanut in my mouth. (He missed. It probably didn't help that, unlike a baby bird, I can't go "PSEEP! PSEEP!" with my mouth open.)
Yesterday I got to snorkel about in the big aquarium tanks as a thanks for spending far too much time volunteering; it was interesting, but would have gone better with less haphazard equipment. The wetsuits and fins were very glamorous (as they came from the volunteer divers' closets) but I went through two snorkels and two masks before coming up with a combination that actually allowed me to stay face-down for long enough to look at things, and I don't imagine that the amount of rather gummy brine I managed to ingest was particularly good for my immune system.
There's something particularly demoralizing about coming to the end of yourself because you've done too many things you actively want to do, to the point where you have to be talked into doing things that you know you'd think are fun. Having to keep getting up to go to work can be pretty awful at times, but at least there's no expectation of being required to enjoy it. And don't get me wrong-- everything but the headaches are pretty stupid problems, but I would like to have enough energy to anticipate the things I'm going to enjoy rather than vaguely dreading them.
This is why tonight, I am being a baby wren.
PSEEP! PSEEP! PSEEP!
Xposty from dreamwidth.
This, and the presence of cute baby wrens (one of whom I had to shoo out of the back of my car the other day so I could close the door) leads to the sort of evening where I go around making PSEEP! PSEEP! noises, and Grauwulf comes by and attempts to drop a peanut in my mouth. (He missed. It probably didn't help that, unlike a baby bird, I can't go "PSEEP! PSEEP!" with my mouth open.)
Yesterday I got to snorkel about in the big aquarium tanks as a thanks for spending far too much time volunteering; it was interesting, but would have gone better with less haphazard equipment. The wetsuits and fins were very glamorous (as they came from the volunteer divers' closets) but I went through two snorkels and two masks before coming up with a combination that actually allowed me to stay face-down for long enough to look at things, and I don't imagine that the amount of rather gummy brine I managed to ingest was particularly good for my immune system.
There's something particularly demoralizing about coming to the end of yourself because you've done too many things you actively want to do, to the point where you have to be talked into doing things that you know you'd think are fun. Having to keep getting up to go to work can be pretty awful at times, but at least there's no expectation of being required to enjoy it. And don't get me wrong-- everything but the headaches are pretty stupid problems, but I would like to have enough energy to anticipate the things I'm going to enjoy rather than vaguely dreading them.
This is why tonight, I am being a baby wren.
PSEEP! PSEEP! PSEEP!
Xposty from dreamwidth.