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Jul. 17th, 2010 11:24 pmMy time-sense becomes unanchored in July. It also unanchors when I'm quite ill, but it always becomes unanchored in Canberra in July. Nowhere else. Just Canberra.
I use little clues to remind myself what day it is. If Iron Chef is on then it must be Saturday. If the hall outside my flat smells of bleach then it must be Friday.
Except life tricks me. Friday isn't really Friday anymore. Thursday is ammonia-day because the cleaning regime was changed recently. No-one told me. You can see why I lose time so very easily.
Hours are simple, really. It's the days that disappear. I want them to write me a note "Gone to the third Tuesday in August. I'll fit in there better." or "Gone to 2063: all the days in 2010 are woefully slow and need to get a grip on themselves." or "Gone back to the sixties. Want to swing for a little." If you travel in time to my childhood, you'll find several Mondays in our back garden, swinging. Most of them are from 1998, I think.
I keep hoping that the missing days will re-appear in my storeroom or in one of those little boxes I love so much and litter my flat with, and I will be able to carefully unpack many weeks of Fridays or maybe even Sundays. With those extra days, I shall do all the projects I've left half finished due to lost time. Imagine, a thousand missing days devoted to opening each and every file and checking its status and working on it until there is no work to do and then sending the documents where they need to be and then closing that file, with a smile. Every novel. Every article. Every silly joke. Then imagine the days of the week being so shaken by this amazing discipline and sense of completion that they never, ever get lost again.
I use little clues to remind myself what day it is. If Iron Chef is on then it must be Saturday. If the hall outside my flat smells of bleach then it must be Friday.
Except life tricks me. Friday isn't really Friday anymore. Thursday is ammonia-day because the cleaning regime was changed recently. No-one told me. You can see why I lose time so very easily.
Hours are simple, really. It's the days that disappear. I want them to write me a note "Gone to the third Tuesday in August. I'll fit in there better." or "Gone to 2063: all the days in 2010 are woefully slow and need to get a grip on themselves." or "Gone back to the sixties. Want to swing for a little." If you travel in time to my childhood, you'll find several Mondays in our back garden, swinging. Most of them are from 1998, I think.
I keep hoping that the missing days will re-appear in my storeroom or in one of those little boxes I love so much and litter my flat with, and I will be able to carefully unpack many weeks of Fridays or maybe even Sundays. With those extra days, I shall do all the projects I've left half finished due to lost time. Imagine, a thousand missing days devoted to opening each and every file and checking its status and working on it until there is no work to do and then sending the documents where they need to be and then closing that file, with a smile. Every novel. Every article. Every silly joke. Then imagine the days of the week being so shaken by this amazing discipline and sense of completion that they never, ever get lost again.