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not among barbarians
Jan. 28th, 2004 09:31 pmSeveral lifetimes ago, I acquired one of those fancy notebooks with weird lines, that's intended to be used as a journal. I was never any good at keeping a diary. I can barely keep up with my lab notebooks. These past few months of LiveJournal are probably as close as I've ever come to a regular personal record of my life, and you can all see how irregular and impersonal it is.
This blank diary, which remained mostly blank until I lost it, had pictures and quotations every few pages. I think they were meant to inspire writing, or peace of mind, or something. Most of them, obviously, did no such thing. (Then again, it was 1991, and I couldn't sustain consciousness long enough for anything approaching peace of mind.) But I do remember one of the quotations.
Though I live among barbarians
And you are a thousand miles away
There will always be two cups on my table
I did feel that I was living among barbarians then. I always flinched when I left the house, and usually when I left the room. (I lived among frat boy geeks, but they were still frat boys, and sometimes the only way to get through to them was via circuit breaker.) But I didn't really have a table, only a desks and a whole lot of bookshelves. I put my tea mug, and the spare tea mug, side by side on the shelf over my desk. It started as a sentimental gesture, until the spare mug started to get dusty and then fill up with change and pocketry.
Now I have comfort, and peace, and quiet. I live in a civilized place. My teapots, and mugs, and cups (I suspect I have more cups than people could fit into this apartment, though I haven't done the experiment) live in kitchen cupboards. I drink tea alone at my desk, or with friends on the couch or at the table. I can take a bus to TeaLuxe. I do not live among barbarians.
Today I saw a mug of tea on top of one of the bookcases in my bedroom. I had forgotten about it since I made it, at 2:50 Sunday morning. (I don't usually have anything but water in the bedroom.) It was too sweet to drink, but aren't sentimental gestures supposed to be sweet?
I do not live among barbarians, I live in Middlesex County.
There are no cups on my table. I washed them and put them away.
None of that matters to the proverbial thousand miles.
Which could be 2000, or 500, or 5. Anywhere but here.
This blank diary, which remained mostly blank until I lost it, had pictures and quotations every few pages. I think they were meant to inspire writing, or peace of mind, or something. Most of them, obviously, did no such thing. (Then again, it was 1991, and I couldn't sustain consciousness long enough for anything approaching peace of mind.) But I do remember one of the quotations.
Though I live among barbarians
And you are a thousand miles away
There will always be two cups on my table
I did feel that I was living among barbarians then. I always flinched when I left the house, and usually when I left the room. (I lived among frat boy geeks, but they were still frat boys, and sometimes the only way to get through to them was via circuit breaker.) But I didn't really have a table, only a desks and a whole lot of bookshelves. I put my tea mug, and the spare tea mug, side by side on the shelf over my desk. It started as a sentimental gesture, until the spare mug started to get dusty and then fill up with change and pocketry.
Now I have comfort, and peace, and quiet. I live in a civilized place. My teapots, and mugs, and cups (I suspect I have more cups than people could fit into this apartment, though I haven't done the experiment) live in kitchen cupboards. I drink tea alone at my desk, or with friends on the couch or at the table. I can take a bus to TeaLuxe. I do not live among barbarians.
Today I saw a mug of tea on top of one of the bookcases in my bedroom. I had forgotten about it since I made it, at 2:50 Sunday morning. (I don't usually have anything but water in the bedroom.) It was too sweet to drink, but aren't sentimental gestures supposed to be sweet?
I do not live among barbarians, I live in Middlesex County.
There are no cups on my table. I washed them and put them away.
None of that matters to the proverbial thousand miles.
Which could be 2000, or 500, or 5. Anywhere but here.
