The F91W experiment has been a success: I am mindful. but documenting it here is onerous so I have decided to end it. Thank you for reading.
The trouble with being half ill is that it is difficult to assign a proper cause: you end up blaming what you’re doing not what you did.
I don’t know if it is something to do with having short hair, but I have an overwhelming desire to start doing yoga again.
Head aching after being dumped in the deep end of an Olympic-sized project without any floatation aids.
Sunny but cool, a dualistic day. The brain needs the window open, the body wants it closed.
Incipient hayfever is becoming more cipient, it drags me down to lethe’s snotty jaws, where I am consumed.
I love the smell of university libraries: its an air of neglect combined with the aura of being safe, unlike in council libraries.
I now completely filter out the chime on my watch, which is worrying and interesting, perhaps being hit on the back with bamboo might work?
Considering the ethics of selling an iPod Touch to my spouse. Either I should give it to her or not mention it. Otherwise it is a bit mean.
Tired now, after staying up late reading Andrew Juniper’s book on Wabi Sabi. I found it compelling but unbearably light.
The sound of the servers cooling their innards, immobile plants longing for summer, dust accumulating in a hair strand cul-de-sac.
Trucks rumble past and shake the building, the rat in my throat has shrunk the size of a mouse, papers pile up on all desks except mine.
Throat still sore, mind still fugged, feet still cold, but feeling much better after singing along to Grease.
Doing one thing at a time, unfortuately that one thing is puzzling over what it is that I should be doing.
Outside, the faint cry stupefied drunks incapable of celebrating their victory. Inside, a shiver, a croak and an irrational groan.
That thing in my throat yesterday: tonsilitis. A dampener. Francesca Woodman will have to wait.
Is it that time already? Conclusion: Life is easy, as long as you’re brave enough.
Weird. The volume on my watch alters depending on how often I click the function buttons. A design flaw in the f91w or delusional deafness?
I sometimes feel like I am in a world populated by people from an Alan Bennett monologue. Those wistful glances, the revealing line . . .
Lectured yesterday on how I should wear a cycle helmet even when I rarely go on the road. More worried about Roy Porter or Doug Adams death.