That Fallacy of Time
So, I have a list of approximately 1000 things to do.
I have to finish up the dining room, though progress has been made. But there’s a window covering to do, a wall shelf to hang, the living room to empty out, and then the kitchen, and then the cleaning of aforesaid locations.
There’s stuff I need to do for the upcoming Fringe Element Bizarre Bazaar, and for my own Bluegrass Leather Pride.
There’s a Leather Presentation I need to write.
I have to refill my ink on my printer.
I have some business of life stuff, things to mail, things to pay, things to buy.
slave drew’s birthday is Wednesday, Thanksgiving is Thursday and then it’s the holiday weekend.
I made a list of the things I have to do and haven’t done them, but making a list was kind of on the list.
I need to get my nails done.
I need to go to the grocery and to the bank.
I have to make pies. It’s Thanksgiving, for heaven’s sake, I have to make pies.
I have to make some calls, settle some final details about this and that.
I need to answer emails and comments and look at Facebook and Fetlife and those seven million social sites we keep up with, sort of.
I need to type an invoice for drew.
I have to move some plants and rearrange others and, and, and, and…
So I always think I’ll have time. Tomorrow or in a day or two, and I suppose I should know by now I never will have that time, really, not in the optimistic block of it I see in my mind. I’ll be sitting at my desk, the dogs sleeping or happily playing, the sun is shining.
I have a pot of tea and a smoking fast connection, my desk surface is mostly clear, other than this fabled list, which is in the center of my desk.
I move through my list, making calls, writing emails, typing invoices, checking things off the list tidily. I pause occasionally to let the happy dogs in or out, or to refill my pot of tea.
The house is quiet and there is nothing to distract me.
In reality, home and work and life and relationships and obligations and the best laid plan have gang aft agley, to quote Burns.
The dogs are indeed outside, barking obsessively at the neighbor’s dog, making HIM bark, making them bark. Two will mostly come if I shriek loudly enough, but Belle is really nearly stone deaf, though she hears the word “carrot” just fine, thank you.
Meaning I have to go out and chase her down and run her in.
I have a large yard and if it’s dark that’s actually a task, especially when you’re looking for a dog about the size of a breadbox with short legs and pointy ears and a perfect carrot tail. Different kind of carrot. It’s what they call it, I swear.
The emails I answer generate more emails which have to be answered, and where the fuck DID I put the registration for my car, I really have to go find that now, I know it was in the car…
It was tucked under the visor, by the way.
The quick phone call turns into a pleasant and really important chat, but there goes an hour. Then there’s the errand I have to run before 1 and the appointment to be considered at 2 and then there’s the pickup at 3 and the meeting at 6 and and and and…
And morning comes early and it’s now already past my bedtime.
Which makes me think of Ralph Hodgson:
Time, you old gipsy man,
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?
And now, I’m out of time for the night.