LSPoorEeyorick
01-30-2007, 05:25 PM
What can you do for yourself in one hour, and fifteen extra minutes?
Read your local newspaper from cover-to-cover?
Tumble 'tween the legs of your scintillating lover?
In seventy-five minutes, I can reach the bowels of the Haunted Mansion if I leave my home at eight A.M. on a Sunday morning.
At the same time--if we speed-- I can conceivably cross the line into Santa Barbara county by 9:15.
If I wish to stay nearer my home (as often I do) I can spend a thorough an hour and a quarter at the farmer's market, gathering the makings for a creamy pureed watercress soup.
I could make the soup twice in that time with the aid of a sous-chef, once if I go it alone. I prefer the sous-chef, because there are many too many things to do in an hour and a quarter-- particularly because most of them only start getting good at the 1:15 mark.
So I can only imagine the frustration of a life lived in 75-minute units.
One whole hour, and fifteen extra minutes to sit in a chair draped with towels stuck with maxi-pads, there to collect the fluids that slowly and continually seep from wounds all along your body, splitting your paper-thin skin which now lifts off with the bandages as they're pulled away.
One whole hour, and fifteen extra minutes to stare at the same corner of the same room which has encased you for the slow progression of years and years-- and years past your best-by date.
One whole hour, and fifteen extra minutes to start a movie, only to have to pause it, or let it slip by, when the time-bomb ticking of a drug-weary bladder signals that it's time again for the slicing pain of a forty-five minute trip to the bathroom and back, hoping that your crumbling frame doesn't buckle on you.
One whole hour to think about everything that led to a half-life spent caring for the weeping wounds. And weeping, period. And fifteen extra minutes to imagine all the things you could be doing if you didn't have to live your life in hours divided like your mutated--prison--cells.
Read your local newspaper from cover-to-cover?
Tumble 'tween the legs of your scintillating lover?
In seventy-five minutes, I can reach the bowels of the Haunted Mansion if I leave my home at eight A.M. on a Sunday morning.
At the same time--if we speed-- I can conceivably cross the line into Santa Barbara county by 9:15.
If I wish to stay nearer my home (as often I do) I can spend a thorough an hour and a quarter at the farmer's market, gathering the makings for a creamy pureed watercress soup.
I could make the soup twice in that time with the aid of a sous-chef, once if I go it alone. I prefer the sous-chef, because there are many too many things to do in an hour and a quarter-- particularly because most of them only start getting good at the 1:15 mark.
So I can only imagine the frustration of a life lived in 75-minute units.
One whole hour, and fifteen extra minutes to sit in a chair draped with towels stuck with maxi-pads, there to collect the fluids that slowly and continually seep from wounds all along your body, splitting your paper-thin skin which now lifts off with the bandages as they're pulled away.
One whole hour, and fifteen extra minutes to stare at the same corner of the same room which has encased you for the slow progression of years and years-- and years past your best-by date.
One whole hour, and fifteen extra minutes to start a movie, only to have to pause it, or let it slip by, when the time-bomb ticking of a drug-weary bladder signals that it's time again for the slicing pain of a forty-five minute trip to the bathroom and back, hoping that your crumbling frame doesn't buckle on you.
One whole hour to think about everything that led to a half-life spent caring for the weeping wounds. And weeping, period. And fifteen extra minutes to imagine all the things you could be doing if you didn't have to live your life in hours divided like your mutated--prison--cells.