Some time ago I made a deal with Google. I purchased a Google account—including an iGoogle page, a Google Reader, and myriad other useful tools—all for the low low price of my soul. Wasn’t using it anyway. It was just collecting dust in the corner, and closet space is at a premium in my apartment. Can’t say as I miss it.
It is possible that being soulless has the added benefit of immortality. Dunno yet. I’m not going to comb through the legalese to see if there’s an extended-lifetime warranty, but check back with me in 100 years for an update. Go on, now; just add it to you Google calendar for January of 2109.
The Google calendar, naturally, is part of the package. I [heart] my Google calendar for the simple reason that I cannot lose it. Back in the dark ages, when I recorded my obligations on the corpses of slaughtered trees, my life would fall apart whenever I lost my calendar. There is absolutely no way possible that I can lose my electronic calendar, unless Google goes under, and if that happens, we’ll all have bigger problems to worry about, probably to the tune of “nuclear holocaust” or “alien invasion.”
This week my Google calendar looks strangely empty, thanks to my having removed “Work on manuscript OR ELSE” from every available space. Other items have started to fill the schedule, though. A sampling:
- Saramago read-alike due Feb. 1
- Graphic novel article revisions due soon
- Fantasy chapter narrative due ages ago
- Go crawling back to yoga
- Get a haircut, for the love of God
- Threaten existence of universe
Having finished the evisions-ray yesterday afternoon, and then worked a full day at the library, I went home and… did nothing. Sat at the computer for a bit, then sat on the couch for a bit. Things this evening are nominally improved, but my brain is still fried. Very primitive sentences (“Here’s what’s written on my calendar!”) are pretty much all I’m good for. I mean I am not even up for reading sentences. Even the book on zombie philosophy and the book on Stalin are unappealing to me right now, to say nothing of the Magical Realists I’ll need to brush up on before attempting my Saramago piece. (Nothing against Magical Realism, but light reading it is not. “Fluffy” and “Garcia Marquez” don’t normally reside in the same sentence.)
I am pleased to report, however, that the other items on the calendar are receiving more attention. Tomorrow I shall see Hairdresser Jeff. On Saturday I shall imperil the fabric of reality. And as for crawling back to yoga—well, actually, I already did that part this evening.
Having done no yoga whatsoever for five months, I was a bit nervous.
Q. Would half-pigeon pose still be doable?
Q. How about half-pigeon with the twisty bits, where you reach around for your ankle and so forth?
Q. How about backbends?
Q. How many?
Q. In a row?
A. In a row. Quick-succession, like.
Q. You mean the fully inverted kind?
Q. Did you drop back or lift from the floor to get into them?
A. Lifted from the floor.
Q. Wait a second, were you ever able to drop into a backbend?
A. Well, no. But lifting from the floor isn’t exactly easy, you know.
Q. Um… how about turtle? Can you still do turtle after nearly half a year of no stretching?
A. Seems I can.
Q. Are you going to regret this tomorrow?
A. Almost certainly.
Hairdresser Jeff may, in fact, be giving a haircut to a human-shaped bundle of agony. Nothing hurts right now, but after my muscles have had a good night’s sleep to realize the injustice I have done them, they may well turn into a puddle of quivering goo—a puddle of quivering, painful goo. In faint hopes of preventing the pain, I shall now add another event to this evening’s exciting* activities, a very hot bath. Check back with me next week.**
* “Exciting” when compared to last night’s activities, at any rate
** Provided I don’t succeed in destroying the fabric of reality