It's difficult, I suppose, to measure the productivity of one's evening. Sometimes, even when I do nothing, I feel like I can go to bed saying, like Jesus at the end of Last Temptation: "It is accomplished." (Did Jesus really say this in the Bible? Do I just have amnesia? Can anyone give me a chapter and a verse?)
Tonight I did laundry, took time out to encourage my friend Jaime, helped Matthew work through some shit and had a long, fluid, easy conversation with my old friend John Testro that actually felt like a conversation between two friends. I ironed my shirts for what seemed like three hours, and I also watched Jim Jarmusch's excellent Dead Man with Johnny Depp and a million other people including John Hurt, Gabriel Byrne, Iggy Pop and (!) Robert Mitchum.
I did not, however, finish the book I'm reading, nor did I buy my parents a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary present. Will I? Probably not. So on those levels the evening feels like a bit of a loss, perhaps because so much of it was spent on the phone, or because I had to complete the utterly banal task of doing my own laundry.
A list that began forming in my head yesterday. It is in no way complete. These are just a few of the things I've thought of.
My Favorite Extravagances:
Getting a massage.
A venti hazelnut latté.
Seeing a movie at the Arclight Hollywood.
Five extra minutes in the shower.
Going to the opera.
One of those bioré strips.
Having someone else drive.
That's enough for now.