Continuing the journal series, we’ll move from the postmodern to the pre-modern. Books of Hours have long fascinated me, as they are largely visual yet instrumental to spiritual life in the medieval church. They were not diaries, per se, but did break the day up into pieces.
Matins: The wee hours
6am. My bowels wake me up after an uninterrupted night’s sleep, before my alarm. This is a new development in my body’s inner workings, which I suspect benefited greatly when I finally quit coffee last week. This makes me sad, because I truly enjoy drinking coffee, not just the physiological effects of it. Ever since I went full carnivore, I’ve been slowly losing my taste for it and now it’s just…gone.
Because I woke earlier that usual, I arrived at work in time to clock in like a civilized person before heading to a morning’s worth of presentations. It’s a beautiful morning, not quite hot yet but still sunny and full of promise. The view that’s normally part of my commute is obscured by the hazy, settled smoke from nearby wildfires. I love what it does to the low light, filtering it like a sieve, but I don’t love how hard it is to breathe.
Terce: Late morning
We take a break from presentations and I make sure to assert myself, to validate the very reason I went to these in the first place. My lack of coffee and still-too-little sleep schedule has led me to almost nod off in a few of the presentations, so I try to overcompensate by forcing myself to be extra outgoing. This is not my favorite thing in the world, but I think I do an okay job at it. I’m recruiting the presenters. We’ll see how the conversion rate is in a few years.
Still in presentations.
I’m just now getting around to eating lunch. At work, I’ve perfected a pseudo-mac-n-cheese adapted for the carnivore: sliced grilled chicken off the salad bar, topped with a few bacon bits and some cheese, then microwaved until the cheese is melty. No doubt it’s fake cheese; no doubt I need to stop eating it; no doubt it’s delicious.
This week, I agreed to go on a date. We end up at an under-air conditioned dive that’s wallpapered for books and set for destruction in the next month. It’s a victim to a wave of rent hikes that have happened all across the city, forcing out the longtime businesses in favor of short term, capitaled-up disney-style establishments. All style, no soul. I’ve never been to this one before, but I’m a little nostalgic on its behalf anyway.
Compline: Late evening
Now I’m curled up on my bed, attempting to force words out of my head and onto this blog. Trying to understand the mind of men never works, but I try to anyway. My mind is still fixed on the date, on what I want (or don’t want) to happen next. I’m not sure. I do know that I’d rather be home learning about Books of Hours than out dancing. This blogging ritual is starting to grow on me, but sometimes I have very little to give. Perhaps I should move blogging from compline to lauds.