Time goes by so slowly...

A minute passes and I am certain that it has been five. My well-honed ability to gauge the passage of time has somehow evaporated today.

This afternoon I feel like I am driving with the parking brake on: the drag hindering momentum, resisting progression, sucking fuel.

The numbers on my computer monitor click by in slow motion, as if it is a signficant effort for the pixels to rearrange themselves into new digits, a momentous task to announce the passage of another minute.

Only 450 minutes to go.

24 January 2006, 15:01

Bloody Sunday

If only Sunday evenings were not a precursor to Monday mornings.

I would to bottle whatever makes the hours between Friday at 5:30 and Sunday at 10:00 disappear with alarming velocity -- and then apply liberally to Monday through Thursday.

23 January 2006, 03:01

The wrath of wine

I thoroughly enjoy a big glass of red wine. I love to stick my face right into the glass, sniffing (and not in a Sideways-esque fashion). No, I cannot begin to identify or articulate the complex concoctions of fruit and spice; I do not know if traces of vanilla lasciviously drape themselves over blackcurrants, and I fail to understand how the pear or plum can lurk in the periphery, waiting to reveal themselves in the wine's blood-red shadow. I have never been able to detect a whiff of the field of buttercups blowing next to the vines where the grapes were born. I cannot even ascertain the colonge that the winemaker was wearing that glorious, sun-drenched day. I am utterly hopeless.

But I love breathing in the deep, rich colours and delicious winey smells. And I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of a nice round mouthful splashing down my throat, warming everything in its wake. The best part is the second glass: the first has started to simmer in my stomach, sending out a delicious coziness to swim blissfully in my blood. And, ah, that coy mind haze...

After the fourth or fifth glass, the world is just simply a kick-ass place to be.

The next morning, when I wake to realize that perhaps a little more food would have been in order, and that just maybe a few glasses of water would have been a prudent move, I want to blame the wine. But I don't: I lie back onto the pillow and acknowledge the punishment, whilst hearing the mantra whispered from behind the clenching ache in my head: respect the grape, respect the grape.

21 January 2006, 15:01

And how did we get here?

Every few days for the past 2.5 years I have felt the itch: the need to put pixels into play, commenting upon everything from the mundane to the spectacular, to document the small events that make up a life.

I don't know why I cannot seem to commit to writing every day. Where does the pressure come from? Why is it so necessary to say something relevant or beautiful, witty or wise?

I look at some of these old posts -- most of which fit into none of the above criteria -- and ask myself: just what the hell is your problem, anyway?

Well, sod all that. I'm writing again. I herein commit myself to documenting more moments in tiny boxes of black.

19 January 2006, 09:01