How the Day Escapes

How does the day, each day, seem to escape from me? Why so little time left for reading, writing? What am I doing with my time? Some precision is required. When I require precision I begin to make lists.

Yesterday, for example, I spent: walking the dog, blogging, checking facebook, emailing, running errands including buying a typewriter for my 10 year old (she's not allowed on facebook and this seemed a good consolation prize), answering, connecting, questioning, responding, staring blankly at screens, waiting, filling, emptying (in boxes, out boxes), clicking on emoticons, sending, receiving, overpunctuating in hopes of unflattening sentences on screen, hyperlinking, doodling, staring out the window, backing up files, driving, photographing, yearning, (and photographing yearning) listening to the tapping of keys, to a bird singing through the gray and snow, looking at small things caged, opening the door to the small cage, thinking about how after being interrupted constantly the space one finds oneself in afterwards holds a strange humming, more answering, more emptying, checking, checking, ignoring, noticing, phoning, waiting, sipping wine, cooking, baking, cleaning, tapping, blinking, connecting, craving spring, craving a typewriter of my own, forgetting what a terrible typist I am, organizing, searching, surfing, researching, making notes, revising, uploading, printing, scheming, praying to a variety of gods, thanking same, watching Star Trek (TNG), reading this blog and that, commenting, meaning to comment but too tired, writing in diary, doodling in diary, nagging, cajoling, assembling, at some point, sleeping.

But this, too, is imprecise.




And maybe why I have the craving to have my own, working, typewriter. (The carriage on the one below needs repair). I want to hear the sound of the key flying up, rising to meet the page, and that satisfying moment when it connects.