Suddenly, for the first time in months and months, I have time. Oh, just don’t engage me on the topic of work projects I am behind in. Irrelevant. At the end of the day, I come back to having time.
Time to look for the deserted, neglected Mr. B. [Hey buddy, I have a present for you; I bought it in NY in this cool store on Spring Street; get a load of the colors! it’s from Ocean and me. I get a deflated response – as if much of the air had left him due to more than a month of neglect. I note that he's turned greasy, so that when I rub against him, as inevitably I am wont to do, it totally dirties my pants. Ah well, I was prepared for this – there’s some make-up groveling I have to do here. I take him out of his cramped quarters and we go for a spin together at the end of which, I finally introduce him to the loft.]
a bell for Mr. B
Time for a latte with a pal. (When did I stop those? Okay, I did not stop those, but I felt guilty during each and every one this past month.)
Time to swing by and visit Mai. [Hey there, another pair of pants to tuck and trim! You look well? Better. I have everything ready for you. Nina, would you help me make a video about sewing? Oh Jesus, I have no special talent for that! A photo, I can take a photo. Here, see how well you look! Wait, please, I have to comb my hair! Mai is dressed spiffily again. It’s Friday. Where will she go after she puts in the last tuck this evening? Whom will she meet up with? She is from Vietnam. Is he from Vietnam? I’ll find someone who can help you with the video…]
Time to go to Borders and look at books. Time. When I was 10 or 11 I read a book that I loved to pieces (I wont mention the title because it has since been shamelessly turned into a movie, so totally inadequate that it has ruined all my best memories of the original text, which was lovely, really lovely). It is about an efficiency expert who, in the 1930s, basically created ways to cut back the number of seconds it took to do, well, any number of things. Toward the end of the book he dies of a heart attack and it’s all totally sad (except for the fact that his kids then went on to write this book about him). But I have always for some oddball reason, remembered the last line of the book. It goes like this (and I am certain that I am not off, not even by a word):
(so, his friend asks him at some point) But what do you want to save time for? What are you going to do with it?” And he answers “for work, if you love that best. For education, for beauty, for art, for pleasure. For mumbelty-peg, if that’s where your heart lies.”
I had my share of mumblety-peg today without tossing any knives into the air.