This morning I got up at 7:31 and took a shower. I packed my lunch -- a frozen burrito, a can of seltzer and a plum (one that ideally wouldn't explode in my backpack) -- and made a bowl of cereal, which included ____ sprinkled with some granola and a handful of blueberries (rinsed). As I ate the cereal, I played with the cats: Elektra likes to run through the leopard-spotted tunnel we bought, and Zephyr likes to 'pounce' her when she appears at the other side, where they will adorably wrestle for a few seconds. Dante 'stomped snakes' -- catching them in his mouth and then stepping hard on them with his rear legs -- while I drank a cup of Golden Darjeeling -- 'the champagne of breakfast teas' -- prepared by Stephen (who is a tea expert).
I walked to the subway, noting that the day was not as overcast as the previous one, although it was still quite hot and muggy. I caught the local C at approximately 8:35 and transferred to the D at 125th Street. Engrossed in my book -- Our Life in Gardens -- I missed my stop at 34th Street and got out at West 4th, where I crossed to the uptown platform and then 'yo-yoed' back up to 34th Street. Soon after this, I arrived at work. In my office I turned on my computer and while it booted up went to the kitchen for a glass of water; as always, I rolled my eyes at the neurotic warning someone had taped to the water cooler, warning people not to touch the spout with the water bottle because it's 'UNSANITARY!' I went back to my office. Time passed. A little after 1pm, I went to the gym, where I spent 22 minutes and 30 seconds on the rowing maching. I burned exactly 308 calories. I listened to a good portion of 'This Is Our Music,' the third album by Galaxie 500. I was motivated to row harder during the blazing guitar solo at the end of 'Listen The Snow Is Falling.' After I finished rowing, I did 40 push-ups (two sets of twenty) and then took a shower. I went back to my office and ate lunch. Time passed. At 5:31, I shut down my computer and walked back to the subway, where I took a B-train to 59th Street. There I caught an A to 125th and then switched to the local, which took me to 163rd. I exited the train and was lightly splashed by an exploding water balloon that one kid had thrown at another; the hydrant was on today, but with the special cap so that it doesn't waste too much water. I arrived at the house, where I collected the garbage from the tenants' apartment upstairs, checked the mail and then spent a few minutes in the garden, which I noted has a lot of clover. I picked out a few clumps and was momentarily intoxicated by how fresh it smelled, and I wondered if I could eat it. Instead I ate a basil leaf, and then another; it occurred to me that it might be an appetite suppressant, although I've never heard anything to back this up. I dead-headed the marigolds and the gazanias and watered the pots and the wall. I wondered why the leaves of the variegated climbing hydrangea are so tiny and if we might need to fertilize them more. I remembered running into my old friend Miranda at the book party the other night and how she didn't recognize me, and how I chatted with her husband and told him that I sometimes thought of her because our variegated climbing hydrangea was also named Miranda and he said, 'you should tell her that,' and I said, 'I will!' but they left without saying goodbye so I never got the chance. I put the garbage out on the curb and hoped that nobody would tear it open and throw it everywhere, as sometimes happens.
I left the house and returned to the apartment, where I greeted the cats and Stephen, who was listening to Elektra (the opera, not the cat), and I melted during a particularly lush section of music and then shuddered during the terrifying scream. I turned on my 'Macbook' and as I waited for it to boot up cleaned out the cat litter box. I returned to the computer and checked my 'stats' on the blog and edited some photos for a post. I admired the bronze tone of the manhole covers, and imagined worlds beneath them. I remembered the scene near the end of The Third Man where Orson Welles pushes his fingers through a grate in Vienna. I looked at the screen in front of me and wished that I was traveling. It occurred to me that the repetitive nature of work makes time seem at once both so dreadfully slow and fast. I suddenly wanted to differeniate one day from the next, to break apart the dull tedium in which they are so often ensconced. I reached out to touch one of the cats and thought: 'well, what exactly did I do today?'
Just to say:
"Fascinating!"
"A Day in the Life of...."
"How is this night different from all others?"
Seriously....I romanticize a life in the city (THE CITY!!) as so exciting and adventurous. Except for the subway ride (I have a 5 minute walk to work) and cats (I have a dog, Sa'mone) we could trade places, and you could be in Albany. (ALBANY!!)
PS I need to find out what's eating my clematis.....)
Posted by: John | 07/31/2009 at 08:59 AM
Sometimes I feel like I'm in Albany, John! As for the clematis, there are so many strange things gnawing away at the plants this summer, due to all the rain I think!
Posted by: Matthew Gallaway | 07/31/2009 at 09:42 AM
"It occurred to me that the repetitive nature of work makes time seem at once both so dreadfully slow and fast. I suddenly wanted to differentiate one day from the next, to break apart the dull tedium in which they are so often ensconced."
Ugh, yes. I find that here in San Francisco, the days blend together even more so, because the weather is never dramatic enough, and the seasons are never distinct enough, to help differentiate. I'm just floating along in a gray fog, it's like living in a void, or in limbo.
Posted by: Caitlin | 07/31/2009 at 12:14 PM