Omar the cat wedges his body between my left thigh and the couch cushion, rolling over every once in a while to adjust his arms and head. His ears flick with my keystrokes. The gray of this early afternoon light turns all color in the apartment one shade darker. Or is that lighter, more pale, less vibrant, pastel.
Two overripe bananas sit atop six or seven underripe bananas next to a pineapple with punky green hair and scabs with spikes for skin. It's jaundiced. Gone a little peachy-pink around the edges.
I've also bought beets for the first time in a long time, if ever, and I do not know if I am allowed to eat the leftover leafy shoots. They're so beautiful I can't throw them in the bin.*
Well and then there's the work that I have to do always all the time: apply for at least one job today, keeping up that standard for however long it takes, until the soul I don't have would be crushed if I did have; draft letters of inquiry and statements of purpose for potential employers and literary agents, most of whom will never respond; finish, polish the manuscript, add the bit about nag champa stuck in the car dashboard and also that conversation at the end of a dimly-lit sushi dinner with Mandy; decide whether or not the research essay might be published in an academic or research journal and deal with the coinciding self-deprecation that comes with offering one's (written) work as worthwhile, publishable, relevant, even of consequence; and all of those other not-so-important errands, like a passport and fingerprinting and graduation tickets with cap and gown, that sit in a wet and stinking pile in the corner of the room, their stench a gross reminder of the young (hardworking) adult's growing list of utterly stupid responsibilities and requirements...
This fulfills some need. To write in this online journal. Almost as if reporting my life to friends and strangers in code, in code. Or just for myself.
*yes, says the internet, they are edible