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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Beginning of a letter, never sent, to Sophistica
Hello, darling-- I am here in the lab, having exhausted myself this morning by making a gel. Not running a gel, just casting one. Not two. One. And then, this afternoon, I think I may have to do some work, but I don't know. I'm going to try to get out of it though, you bet. So, I'm all tired-like, what with staying out until 2 am [Ozomatli concert] and such and being old, etc. When the alarm went off at our house this morning at 7 am, there was not a bit of enthusiasm about it, let me tell you. I am so nap-time (as they say around here), it's not even funny. Mama came through and toured the lab with my honorable older brother (who admits to understanding only about 70% of what she says at any given time) and she was very adamant about his directing the group to get rid of anything that hadn't been used in a year or more. Man, that's gonna hurt. Lab folk are packrats to begin with, but lab folk from China seem to have cultivated this art for centuries. I think they actually bring clutter starters from their home land which they set up on their benches, on the floor, anywhere there is a horizontal space or vertical space against which something might be leaned. Their reward, should they succeed in eliminating the clutter that is a modern plague, is a new UV spec, maybe a microwave, and some other assorted high ticket toys. Me? I think I get a third of a lab bench when this is all over, which would be a marked improvement from the space I share with my honorable older brother and what seems like ten other people right at the moment.
More lies:
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