I'm not sure exactly why I'm posting these shots of campanula blooms in the sun -- although somewhat miraculously, they are still flowering in the garden -- because today was filled with clouds and rain. Or actually, maybe it wasn't; I seem to remember it raining when I woke up and got ready for work, but then it cleared for a few hours, and once again started to pour this afternoon, until just a few minutes ago. Today was not so different than yesterday, as it turned out, except I didn't miss my stop on the subway train this morning, even though I was reading an exceedingly beautiful chapter about the idea of time in the garden, and how while it can be dismaying to realize that some of the most admirable gardens have existed for decades and sometimes even centuries, the true thrill is planting new things and rearranging and even editing, which is something we're beginning to increasingly confront in our garden. As the authors make clear, to love a garden is to confront mortality -- your own as well as those of the plants -- to some extent, which is also the case with pets/animals.
But as on most days over the course of the past decade or so, I arrived at work and turned on my computer. Time passed. I went to the gym and once again spent 22 minutes and 30 seconds on the rowing machine, and burned exactly 311 calories (or two more than yesterday). Today I listened to the first six of seven songs on 'WhatFunLifeWas,' the first Bedhead album, which I would say is on track to be one of the most criminally neglected albums of the nineties; it's not that it wasn't celebrated at the time, of course, but I rarely hear people talk about it anymore, or maybe it's because I'm not reading the right blogs. I remember when I first heard it -- I actually learned about it from someone who I now kind of hate for reasons that are too complicated to discuss here -- and how amazing it was that so many electric guitars could be orchestrated so beautifully, and with such a dynamic range, because -- as I realized again today -- much of the album is really no louder than a whisper. (This was during an unfortunate phase of my own band when we were all playing on one volume -- extra loud -- a wall-of-noise effect that was completely lacking in the kind of nuance I would later come to appreciate).
This afternoon I ate lunch -- the same as yesterday -- at my desk before resuming work. Time passed. I took breaks now and again and laughed at the kind of lolcat detritus that so often rises to the surface of the internet. I admired the Maira Kalman piece on Ben Franklin in The Times. I twittered and tumblr-blogged a little bit and felt sad, except for a few seconds when I read Bennett Madison's piece on Evan Dando, the second in his series about the most influential blonds of all time. I went back to work. More time passed. I went to copy something and of course the machine was broken, so I went to another machine, which was also broken. I decided that the copying could wait until next week. I returned to my desk and still more time passed. I ran into someone at work who brought her sister in for the day, which seemed like an interesting thing to do; they seemed to be having a lot of fun! Unlike one of my colleagues, however, I did not feel compelled to comment repeatedly about how dissimilar they looked from one another, as if most siblings these days are in fact clones. Finally it was time to leave and I walked through a light drizzle to the subway, where as I descended the steps I felt like I was entering an oven: this occurred to me even at the time, i.e., as I was walking down the steps I thought, "this feels just like stepping into a hot oven." The commute home was unremarkable except for the fact that a woman standing next to me kept hitting me in the head with her purse, which was in the shape of a tube, like a French pillow, and almost as big. I watched the storm front pass and slowly give way to low crimson sunset. As usual, the George Washington Bridge added an improbably grandeur to the scene, and I regretted that the rain drops on the window prevented me from taking a clear shot. I spent time thinking about Edgar Allen Poe and E.T.A. Hoffman, who depending on where you look are both credited with writing the first 'detective' story. I decided that -- at its best -- life is mystery that will never be solved, but which is nevertheless always filled with clues.
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