It's 5:20-ish on December 5th. I'm sitting in the kitchen with one of those giant coffee cups that got to be popular after everybody saw them on The Gilmore Girls, had to have one, and Pier One and Ikea took our collective zeitgeisty wishes as their commands and complied. Yes, there is coffee in this cup, Community Breakfast Blend, to be exact. It's slightly sweet with an acidic aftertaste, which goes well with monk fruit sweetener and almond milk.
What's a babe of the world like me doing in the kitchen with her Bosscat and coffee at this hour? Working. Leaving Facebook open so a friend who found himself stuck in the hospital can chat when he feels the need. Wondering how to get ready for the coming year.
The coming year... That's so arbitrary, really. Our sense of time is this narrow, windowed perception shaped by various religions, philosophers, shifts in the observable physical world, and other iterations of the passage of days as delineated by The Powers That Be. The coming year could start right now, but that would put me and anyone else who is contemplating such a concept even further out of step with the rest of humanity.
The whole "in step with humanity" thing got to be a cute concept during the height of COVID fears. In spite of being a homebody of Dickinsonian proportions, it got to be a bit much. No art or book groups. No communal knitting. Everything was on the internet pipeline. Mon Dieu. Le suckage. That was then. Now? Cases are on the rise in the Southeastern US and as much as I enjoy being an old lady, the fact that it puts me on the endangered species list... To steal from the Asian English term for a possum ("Magical Mouse Rat Funny Animal Friend") it makes me want to "scream at own ass." FOMO is real and it is knowing I am missing out on Posadas and Eids and Yule Dumb Suppers and Diwalis and the Eighth Crazy Night, only those aren't happening either because so many people got out of the habit during the first wave of the pandemic.
"Who do people study now?" I asked a former classmate whose daughter is following in her footsteps by majoring in the most unmarketable degree available in Western Arts and Letters, ie. anthropology. It turns out they do something called "anthropoetics" and fieldwork takes place online in platforms where people gather. Kids these days. Somewhere in the either, Papa Franz is either weeping or having a tremendous belly laugh.
It's now 7:49. Friend is getting discharged. Yay! I have talked down a half-dozen people who are ready to go The-Grinch-Meets-Game-Of-Thrones on co-workers, fellow parishioners, and a various others in their lives. Time for breakfast and a good laugh before I wade back in.
Reading and writing on...
Jas
What's a babe of the world like me doing in the kitchen with her Bosscat and coffee at this hour? Working. Leaving Facebook open so a friend who found himself stuck in the hospital can chat when he feels the need. Wondering how to get ready for the coming year.
The coming year... That's so arbitrary, really. Our sense of time is this narrow, windowed perception shaped by various religions, philosophers, shifts in the observable physical world, and other iterations of the passage of days as delineated by The Powers That Be. The coming year could start right now, but that would put me and anyone else who is contemplating such a concept even further out of step with the rest of humanity.
The whole "in step with humanity" thing got to be a cute concept during the height of COVID fears. In spite of being a homebody of Dickinsonian proportions, it got to be a bit much. No art or book groups. No communal knitting. Everything was on the internet pipeline. Mon Dieu. Le suckage. That was then. Now? Cases are on the rise in the Southeastern US and as much as I enjoy being an old lady, the fact that it puts me on the endangered species list... To steal from the Asian English term for a possum ("Magical Mouse Rat Funny Animal Friend") it makes me want to "scream at own ass." FOMO is real and it is knowing I am missing out on Posadas and Eids and Yule Dumb Suppers and Diwalis and the Eighth Crazy Night, only those aren't happening either because so many people got out of the habit during the first wave of the pandemic.
"Who do people study now?" I asked a former classmate whose daughter is following in her footsteps by majoring in the most unmarketable degree available in Western Arts and Letters, ie. anthropology. It turns out they do something called "anthropoetics" and fieldwork takes place online in platforms where people gather. Kids these days. Somewhere in the either, Papa Franz is either weeping or having a tremendous belly laugh.
It's now 7:49. Friend is getting discharged. Yay! I have talked down a half-dozen people who are ready to go The-Grinch-Meets-Game-Of-Thrones on co-workers, fellow parishioners, and a various others in their lives. Time for breakfast and a good laugh before I wade back in.
Reading and writing on...
Jas
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