April 22nd, 2014

autumn hibiya

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray

Which is strange enough for the end of April. Green points on the lilac bush, brown catkins falling from oh I assume they're maples; but the sky and wind is still November.

We're in the middle of a low-grade ongoing crisis at work, which means all hands to the pump, so I stop thinking of me as someone with leisure time and start thinking of me as a body that works and sleeps. This makes the world look very different. (What makes the world really different is not thinking about the stuff I usually think about, like work as it usually is, or what shall I read next, or can I afford the calories in this cookie.) Half of me longs for the fleshpots of Infinite Time, unsatisfactory though they are; the other half is intrigued by this malleable reality where all I qua I can do is arrange to get enough sleep every night, and live minute by minute the rest of the time. Add to this a personal low-grade crisis of my own, which is a Schroedinger's Crisis: can't tell if it exists or not unless I ask someone, which is the action that will precipitate it into existence if it has the potential to be so and is not totally in my head. (I realize this is obscure. Schroedinger's Crises generally are, by definition.) That too sucks up a lot of the stuff I usually think about.

So I sometimes wonder what this November April would look like if I were myself- would I be moved to write? to study Chinese?- but mostly I accept the views it gives me in passing. Which, however fragmentary and contextless, are at least different.