It is morning and there is no coffee in the house, which means I should either duck down to the local espresso bar I haven’t been to yet, or buckle up and drive to the shops in order to acquire more coffee. The latter option will obviously need to occur either way, for I don’t have the means to duck down to the espresso bar again should I face this problem on the morrow, but still…there’s the issue of immediacy. It’s morning (or it was, when I first started typing this), and mornings need coffee to stop bad things happening for the rest of the day.
Especially today. In a week or so Friday’s will be a magical, awesome day set aside for the purposes of writing and lounging around the house reading books, but this week there is much to do on my to-do list for the day, so it’s going to be somewhat frantic.
Of course, given my inability to make a decision, I’m currently stuck in the part of the day set aside as mooch around the house and listen to PJ Harvey albums. Which isn’t all bad, I can tell you, except for the fact that I’ll be making up the lost minutes later in the evening.
Various parts of my life are in states of disarray at the moment. Not falling apart, not at all, just that glorious kind of mess that comes when you pull everything off the shelves and spread it out across your lounge room, then decide that some things are going to be put away and some things are going to goodwill and maybe it’s time all those socks with holes in them were thrown out once and for all.
It’s kinda neat, actually. So long as I actually remember to do the sorting and the putting away and the throwing out, the disarray will depart and things will be a little more streamlined than they were. It’ll only become a problem when I nod and think “yeah, the coffee table really is an appropriate place to store my underwear, tins of baked beans, and the books of essays about food and fashion.”
I suspect I’m going to get rid of some bookcases. There’s at least three in my collection that have ceased serving any role beyond being a place where I dump things I can’t be bothered sorting out, and none of the three have the kind of pleasing aesthetic quality that even a bad bookcase usually has. A good bookcase inspires you to fill it and keep things sorted out, whereas these are just…there.
The problem, of course, is figuring out how to move them all out of the house, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.