This morning I got up at 7:31 and took a shower. I packed my lunch — a frozen burrito, a can of seltzer and a plum (one that ideally wouldn’t explode in my backpack) — and made a bowl of cereal, which included ____ sprinkled with some granola and a handful of blueberries (rinsed). As I ate the cereal, I played with the cats: Elektra likes to run through the leopard-spotted tunnel we bought, and Zephyr likes to ‘pounce’ her when she appears at the other side, where they will adorably wrestle for a few seconds. Dante ‘stomped snakes’ — catching them in his mouth and then stepping hard on them with his rear legs — while I drank a cup of Golden Darjeeling — ‘the champagne of breakfast teas’ — prepared by Stephen (who is a tea expert).
I walked to the subway, noting that the day was not as overcast as the previous one, although it was still quite hot and muggy. I caught the local C at approximately 8:35 and transferred to the D at 125th Street. Engrossed in my book — Our Life in Gardens — I missed my stop at 34th Street and got out at West 4th, where I crossed to the uptown platform and then ‘yo-yoed’ back up to 34th Street. Soon after this, I arrived at work. In my office I turned on my computer and while it booted up went to the kitchen for a glass of water; as always, I rolled my eyes at the neurotic warning someone had taped to the water cooler, warning people not to touch the spout with the water bottle because it’s ‘UNSANITARY!’ I went back to my office. Time passed. A little after 1pm, I went to the gym, where I spent 22 minutes and 30 seconds on the rowing maching. I burned exactly 308 calories. I listened to a good portion of ‘This Is Our Music,’ the third album by Galaxie 500. I was motivated to row harder during the blazing guitar solo at the end of ‘Listen The Snow Is Falling.’ After I finished rowing, I did 40 push-ups (two sets of twenty) and then took a shower. I went back to my office and ate lunch. Time passed. At 5:31, I shut down my computer and walked back to the subway, where I took a B-train to 59th Street. There I caught an A to 125th and then switched to the local, which took me to 163rd. I exited the train and was lightly splashed by an exploding water balloon that one kid had thrown at another; the hydrant was on today, but with the special cap so that it doesn’t waste too much water. I arrived at the house, where I collected the garbage from the tenants’ apartment upstairs, checked the mail and then spent a few minutes in the garden, which I noted has a lot of clover. I picked out a few clumps and was momentarily intoxicated by how fresh it smelled, and I wondered if I could eat it. Instead I ate a basil leaf, and then another; it occurred to me that it might be an appetite suppressant, although I’ve never heard anything to back this up. I dead-headed the marigolds and the gazanias and watered the pots and the wall. I wondered why the leaves of the variegated climbing hydrangea are so tiny and if we might need to fertilize them more. I remembered running into my old friend Miranda at the book party the other night and how she didn’t recognize me, and how I chatted with her husband and told him that I sometimes thought of her because our variegated climbing hydrangea was also named Miranda and he said, ‘you should tell her that,’ and I said, ‘I will!’ but they left without saying goodbye so I never got the chance. I put the garbage out on the curb and hoped that nobody would tear it open and throw it everywhere, as sometimes happens.
I left the house and returned to the apartment, where I greeted the cats and Stephen, who was listening to Elektra (the opera, not the cat), and I melted during a particularly lush section of music and then shuddered during the terrifying scream. I turned on my ‘Macbook’ and as I waited for it to boot up cleaned out the cat litter box. I returned to the computer and checked my ‘stats’ on the blog and edited some photos for a post. I admired the bronze tone of the manhole covers, and imagined worlds beneath them. I remembered the scene near the end of The Third Man where Orson Welles pushes his fingers through a grate in Vienna. I looked at the screen in front of me and wished that I was traveling. It occurred to me that the repetitive nature of work makes time seem at once both so dreadfully slow and fast. I suddenly wanted to differeniate one day from the next, to break apart the dull tedium in which they are so often ensconced. I reached out to touch one of the cats and thought: ‘well, what exactly did I do today?’
