It is not that we have so little time but that we lose so much. … The life we receive is not short but we make it so; we are not ill provided but use what we have wastefully.

— Seneca, On the Shortness of Life

mistap
verb | mis·tap | \mə-ˈstap\

: to accidentally touch the wrong icon or area of the screen while operating a touchscreen device

see also: fat-finger

Winter morning when earth and sky are the same color the only way of telling where land ends and heaven begins is the ragged black line of pine sawing the horizon. White flakes drift in a suspension of air. The snow doesn’t fall.

Reading Thomas Ligotti’s Teatro Grottesco.

I feel certain that somewhere very near here–the first house down the road maybe–there’s a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody’s having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can’t be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.

–J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

Wine… cat… thinking: I don’t know how to be invisible. It’s a talent some people have. Being overlooked. Sometimes I wish I knew how to do that–fade, forgotten, into the background. Make myself invisible. I wish I knew how to make you stop looking at me.

Sitting on the bed in the B&B in my Superman panties & merino top. Wrapped in the throw blanket & drinking a ghetto mocha engineered from the room’s coffee tray. (Instant coffee, instant cocoa, a couple packets of milk.) Weighing a nap versus walking down the street to a pub with the latop, having a pint of something, and writing something. Oxford can’t decide between blue skies & sun and heavy clouds & chill. Can’t neither of us make up our minds.

Sat at my desk, fresh coffee, ready to work at 9 am. I know millions of people manage to do this every morning without fail, but it feels like an achievement for me.

Storm tonight. In bed, naked, under a pile of white blankets like clouds. Reading Moby Dick and listening to the wind rattle through the world.

Up too late. Up too early. Early enough to stand on the balcony in the sunlight. I can’t remember how many days since I stood in the sun. Need to turn off the internet and think about something else. One cup of coffee isn’t be enough.

Coffee brewed in the vacuum pot. Yesterday I saw a fair trade cardamom coffee in the shop; I nearly bought it. A man I met when I was studying Swedish, another student, he and his brother both refugees from Iraq, once told me I ought to try adding cardamom seeds to the grounds when I make coffee. I remembered this morning.

Curled up on the sofa with books and the laptop and hot coffee. Feeling better; throat is only a little tender. The holidays make me ill. Out in the shops, on the bus, among so many people. Every year I struggle under the obligation to perform in the holiday play. The weight of seasonal expectation. The guilt when the mask slips.