Do you know what exponential means, and how fruitless Time is? Just now it occurred to me that I could quite literally spend the remainder of my life attempting to describe one sixty-second period of time and never complete the task to my satisfaction.
Maybe I'd start out telling you what I did, but then to fully inform you I would need to explain why I did what I did. For instance, I sat on the couch to record a blog post. Why did I choose to sit on the couch? Why a blog post? What significance does the blog hold? For me? For my readers? Why a blog anyway? Why the couch?
Why did I feel the need to record that particular minute? What impact or importance do I believe it holds? All that goes simply to motivation. None of it describes me, the couch, the laptop -- yes, I am typing on a laptop -- the temperature, time of day, month, year, season, humidity, what I'm wearing, the frame of mind I'm in, what my mood is like, my hunger level, if I'm thirsty or need to go to the restroom.
I never describe settings, but a lot of people prefer those types of details. So I suppose I'd have to tell you about the roar of the air conditioner in the window, and how the big shopping bag from T.J. Maxx trembles from the a/c's air flow moving across it.
I'd want you to think the room smelled of Gonesh No. 8 incense but the truth is I forgot to light a stick the last time I was up, and the room really smells like onions and something brown -- I don't know what it is, but it's not unpleasant.
The sun drapes across half the living room window, at such an angle to reveal a winter's accumulation of dust and smudges that silently blame me for not having cleaned them before now.
A red suitcase silently glowers from the big chair. It has been a month since I used the luggage and I still haven't carried it upstairs and put it away in the closet.
After checking Thesaurus.com for a synonym for suitcase, I discovered today [the day I wrote this] is Shakepeare's birthday as well as Nicholson's, and I wonder what the two of them would spend the evening doing if they got together to celebrate.
It doesn't address the cat between my knees, or how warm she feels. It doesn't weigh whether that heat feels like a positive thing or a negative thing, whether it's comfortable, whether I wish she would leave or am relieved she chooses to remain.
The fact Richie Havens just died and Mary Rodd Furbee died nine years ago today [April 22nd], the fact Jack Nicholson celebrated his birthday, hasn't been mentioned yet. What these three individuals mean or meant to me hasn't been shared yet.
My youngest daughter just left a few hours ago and I'm still thinking about and basking in my pleasure at having spent time with her -- little waves of joy still lapping at the shores of my consciousness.
None of this addresses how these relate to my thoughts of the man I am enamored of, and what pops into my head that I want to share with him, and why I don't, and how I feel about that.
I recall the line I read on Twitter that declares every man who experiences deep stress needs a Libra woman in his life causes a tinge of bitterness to rise, a little bilious resentment at men who use that Libra balm to heal his wounds, then move on to greener pastures.
The term paper due in a few short days that I only began writing earlier has bored me, or better yet, maybe, overwhelmed me with its implications. Perhaps starting with online sexual relationships was a poor choice, because it brought back painful memories of my ex-marriage.
I briefly think about the tremendous stress my ex operated under because of his deceptions, but I know those were his choices, and my whiff of pity quickly passes like the hint of fried chicken a neighbor has prepared, that wafted in for the briefest of moments, then left just as soon. Or maybe it was only a memory?
Then the term online persona reared its head and caused me to think a lot about who I am and who I portray myself as in online interactions. I am honest but am I wholly honest? Do I reveal the ugly places, or flash my virtual raincoat momentarily and quickly move along, distracting my readers with something amusing, or deep and thought-provoking, or beautiful, in order to keep the focus off my flaws?
Am I honest? Yes. Am I as revealing as I think I could be? No. Is there enough time in the world for me to share all those parts of myself and yet justify my behaviors in a way that makes me feel safe enough to do so? I doubt it. I can't even manage to do this in my offline life.
No one has the time, or maybe the inclination to know that much about me. And maybe that's good; I don't know.
All I know is there isn't enough time to describe this minute to you. Even if I tried. ~~GH
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