"For I have known them all already, known them all:
have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons ..."
-- T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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| Hourglass 11-12-14 |
"Weeks passed, but my Word-A-Day Calendar
was stuck on 'motherfucker.'"
-- Colson Whitehead,
The Noble Hustle: Poker, Beef Jerky, and Death
"... and behind them all, the quiet, deadly ticking of a thousand hungry clocks,
the lonely sound of time passing in the long Caribbean night."
-- Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary
Being grounded, with strict limitations on what I can and can't do, and spending most of my time with ice packs covering my still sore, bruised and swollen eyes, means that my primary activity right now is simply passing time.
I'm growing quite content with listening to the sounds of silence. Sometimes I listen to cooking shows. They pretty much describe every step of every recipe, so I can picture it in my mind.
When I get up to change my ice packs every now and then I try to accomplish some little bit of something like, say, chop the vegetables for supper, or take a bath, or shoot some photos for my blog.
If I do too much, my eyes start hurting. So I have to work quickly and then get back on the couch under the cold comfort of my icy blindfold.
They say "time heals."
And I am still healing.
Which, therefore, requires time.
Fighting it won't do me a bit of good.
So it's a good thing I've got plenty.
So it's a good thing I've got plenty.
Tick, tock.
