Tidying up

They tell me that I am soon to get a new computer at work, so yesterday I dutifully cleaned all the random documents off my computer desktop. They frown on us saving things to the desktop because they will not be magically backed up in the night like all those things saved to more appropriate files. If it's on your desktop and your computer crashes, it's gone forever. Frankly, I don't care very much if the things on my desktop are lost forever, but still would prefer to avoid the "too many documents on your desktop" lecture, so I refiled them. That is to say, I dragged them all into a file called "Misc. from desktop" which is also on my desktop. But still, it looks better and I figure I'm ready for the new machine any time.

Today though, I noticed my actual desktop. You know, the top of my wooden desk here in physical reality. It turns out that my real desktop is a good deal less tidy that my virtual one. Not only are there dozens of documents that ought to be filed into real labeled folders, there are also scores of little scratch paper notes to myself, five pens, a calculator, a message pad, a notebook, a phone extension list, a variety of loose power cords, an envelope sealer, a plastic cup, a saucer, a small teapot, a long spoon, a pitcher, a tee shirt, and a slightly used kleenex. If the IT guys came in here to replace this computer, they'd have to excavate it first.

Here's what I'm thinking: I go to the garage and get a big cardboard box. I sweep all this stuff into it and with a big black marker label it: Misc. from Desktop. Then I'll just put it on the corner of my desk.

Perfect.

Narnia

My neighbors sleep, Narnia style, in the back of my closet. Or at any rate just beyond the back of my closet. Who am I to say whether or not they exist in a magical kingdom? They might. I've never been in their apartment. I know they're over there though because I hear them. When they retire at night, I hear their bed squeak; I hear their murmuring voices. If I go to bed after them, I'm sure they hear me jostling hangers in my closet as I undress. They probably wish I wasn't addicted to the snooze alarm in the morning.

Last night I was awakened by something. I lay in the dark listening for the mystery disturbance. I could hear nothing alarming, just a little muffled repetitive noise that I identified as a carpet sweeper being run back and forth over the same crumb-covered bit of rug. Then I realized that no one in 2007 has a carpet sweeper and that the apartments in my building have wood floors.

What else makes a muffled repetitive noise late at night? Oohhhh. Right. That. Now I'm all embarrassed.

There's a special place in hell...

Lately I have been reading Dante. (Let's just leave that there by itself for a moment since it looks so literary and highly-educated and self-improving and all.) Actually, I'm reading Dante under duress because I was obliged to enroll in a class called something like "Dante, Dante, Dante." Who knows? Maybe I'll grow to love the Divine Comedy. I don't love it yet, mind you, but I'm only four cantos in, so there's time. Lots and lots of time.

However, this translator's explanation from the end of Canto I is already worth mentioning:

The gay Leopard is the image of the self-indulgent sins--Incontinence; the fierce Lion, of the violent sins--Bestiality; the She-Wolf of the malicious sins, which involve Fraud.

All right, I think I can agree that bestiality counts as a sin, but incontinence? Surely not. Messy, yes. Humiliating, yes, but not a sin. Even to call it "self indulgent" seems a trifle harsh.




[Okay, okay. If you really want to know, incontinent can mean "unchaste," but I'll be that's not the first thing you thought of either.]

Waste not...

I had a dream this morning in which I had been hiking for days through a treacherous mountain range full of Mayan ruins. I believe I also happened to be Leonardo DiCaprio, but that is not too critical. I/Leo was fortunate to run accross another group of explores who A) knew the way down and B) had provisions. We came to rest and the head of their group ripped open numerous packs of Oscar Meyer bologna and distributing them among the travelers. We began devouring it by the handful. Just then many starving villagers appeared. The travelers ignored them, but I/Leo could not bear this injustice and vowed to go hungry if it meant I could feed even one starving child. I tossed my pack of bologna into the crowd.

Cut ahead dream style. We, the viewers, are standing in a cave where a youngster is proudly displaying some kind of peculiarly textured what? hide? on a rack. In front of it is a little rack of bottles filled with yellowish liquid. Apparently, the villagers have managed to extract olive oil from the bologna and then they have made it into a kind a jerky which they split among themselves and chew for two years.

When I woke I spent some time considering what exactly constitutes a nightmare and whether a drying rack of bologna jerky would be allowed to count. I decided that it would.

Not saying much

Things have come to a pretty pass when I'm actually more afraid of my blog (a word I still hate, for the record) than I am of the gym. Did I remember my password? No. No, I did not. Was I a wee bit ashamed? Sadly, yes. But here we are! Again! New leaves all around, say I. Let us turn them together. Ready? Go.

Last night I heard an ad on the radio soliciting support for a summer camp for terminally ill children. They said that this exciting summer escapade would create "memories that will last a lifetime." Which, when you're talking about terminally ill children isn't saying a whole hell of a lot. They may want to rethink that.