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2:13 p.m. - Wednesday, Jun. 02, 2004
You Already Know What It Says
Has it really been a week since I updated? I thought it had been about a month.
This diary is turning into a tiresome recitation of how f*cking tired I am.
I went home last night and was delighted to find the yard too wet to mow so I could GO STRAIGHT TO BED.
Still have to call those people at the doctor's office to try to get the results of my blood work but I'm too tired.
Went to my niece's house Monday and finally saw the famous baby. She's a baby, what else is there to say? Their new puppy is much more interesting.
We all watch the baby, just waiting for her to do something like wave her hands in the air, and when she does, we all "ooh" and "aah" as if such a thing had never been done before, or done so well, or with so much feeling, or so much genius, as this little baby does it.
What the f*ck is the matter with us?
Rationality dissipates in the presence of a baby.
And this little human being will have to grow, and slowly drag herself up out of ignorance, and deal with now with disappointment, now with illness, and always with boredom interrupted occasionally by fear or anger; will have to devote the majority of her years to some soul-sucking job, and then die, more or less painfully; all so that some grown-ups could spend several months cooing over the way she waves her cute little arms in the air.
Life is just unbearable without babies, isn't it?
� �qu�on se rappelle tant d�hommes qui croient en l�amour d�une ma�tresse de qui ils ne connaissent que les trahisons; � qu�on pense encore aux touristes qu�exalte la beaut� d�ensemble d�un voyage dont jour par jour il n�ont �prouv� que de l�ennui � �--Marcel Proust, � l�ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs
That's what I mean. Day by day, counting up the actual occurrences of each hour, all we really know of life is that it is largely tedious and unremarkable, and still we worship it and cling to it with every fiber of our strength.
I am 'way behind in all my reading. I don't think I will ever catch up.
�
