A vague musing on poems about rain, and a half-remebered line which I want to look up later, leading to slight wonderings about why rain has not acquired as much emotionally symbolic significance for me as other weather phenomena, and a reminder of the ongoing mental itch which is a web project which I have been intending to completestart for several years now, which I jokingly referred to on oxnet (which should tell you how long ago this was) as "mapping the psychosymbolic universe", a designation which still amuses me enough to have retained it.
A twitch in the direction of the question of the quantity of caffeine lately consumed, and a mild worry about the ongoing health consequences of an excess of caffeine and a corresponding deficiency in sleep.
The mental background drone of the tedious itemisation of Things I Have To Do and Things I Have Done, as if there were some virtue attached to Doing Things or some of whatever your antithesis of virtue may be attached to Not Doing Things, and when that background mumble becomes foregrounded for long enough to be made audible to my conscious mind, it occurs to me (as it has done many times this week) to ponder the question of whether anything that we do has inherent virtue, and this particularly in the context of the work we do, and the considerations -- emotional, spiritual, financial, economic, political, personal, practical, and so on -- which we may bring to bear on the question of why we work at all.
As an appendix to the above: emails I have failed to reply to, and a constant worry about why I find it so hard to reply to some friends and not to others, and whether this makes me a Bad Person, and whether everybody will immediately hit the "Leave Comment" button right now so they can say "You're not a bad person!", and whether if I were not me I would do that, and whether it would be of any help to anybody.
A dangerous feint towards the yawning abyss of why I always seem to end up thinking about the process of thinking more than thinking about things.
The above neatly diverted into some ongoing guilt about the books I have not yet read but want to read, tinged with an attempt to address the question of whether, for me, attaching value to reading is merely an attempt to dress consumerism (in the broadest sense) in respectable clothes while still procrastinating further away from any real creativity, though the question is ironically sidelined in my mind by the realisation that I am subconsciously trying to list all the books that are currently at the top of my list of things to read, which (the list will out!) include: several books on women's relationships in the context of school fiction; Don DeLillo's Underworld (started but never finished); James Joyce's Ulysses (a perpetual source of misguided guilt); Andrei Bely's Petersburg (borrowed and unread); a history of the London Underground (which I have yet to source); Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman, which I have started again in the hope of finishing this time, but which is hard to concentrate on when I find that it persistently distracts my brain into a brief study of absurdist writing about bicycles.
And, as good a place to end as any, a half-imagined picture of the sprawling landscape of fields and woods and crumbling castles and shining towers and bottomless oceans which visually represents all the paths through my mental meanderings which I did not take at this time and in this place.