I procrastinate

It is nearly three-thirty p.m., probably. Time for Asr Salat. Probably. And me, I am sitting in my rocking chair – this one which has become known far and wide as my Big Comfy Rocking Chair – and I am comfy.

Well, perhaps not known very far and wide, but this is a relatively large house.

I insist that the part concerning my being comfy is entirely accurate, at least, you understand.

Everything is in order. Across my lap is my favorite wooden food tray and upon my favorite wooden food tray sits the perfect steaming cup of tea which smells just like floating in the womb feels, I imagine.

Also, I am reading a short story by Henry Kuttner and it is good, but now is the time for Asr prayer, as I’ve told you already.

I have a theory that’s come to me – from where, I cannot say, for I never know where the theories come from – that if I do not look up at the clock to confirm the time, then no, I am not late. Not on purpose. I’m just lost in a good story and a perfect cup of tea.

The theory has a fault. I am not lost in a good story and a perfect cup of tea. Not anymore. I am not in pain. I am not busy. I am not even in need of food. I am sitting here, comfy and plotting and theorizing about how to be late for Asr Salat.

This theorizing and plotting is more effort than just getting up and doing it.

I’m a mess!

Procrastination will be the end of me, and my tea is cold, and I’m going to get up and do it as-

-soon.

-as.

-I.

-finish.

-writing.

-this.

-blog.

-post.

You're so vain, you probably think this blog post is about you

This is the third of three posts I wrote about my recent business trip. (1) (2)

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Once we were on the ground – and, truly, not even on ground, for between us and the ground there remained the cabin floor, the baggage compartment, and the landing gear, yes, at a minimum, those – Doctor Belloq set about reshaping me into her tour guide.

And later, in an open air market, I searched out baubles for my chokers while she announced she wished to try the flesh of the giant black aquatic centipede. “They are native to this region,” she said to me.

The region was mountainous.

Dry.

Far from the sea.

A different village

My story is mostly true, I believe.

I remember the incident in question and quite well too because it all seemed so plausible at the time – as it was happening, I mean to say – only to then seem utterly ridiculous later on. In retrospect.

I remember a walking stick. A perfect walking stick. The, even. Surely finer than any walking stick in fiction would be. In fact, were this story not true, I wouldn’t mention the stick at all. It is, after all, completely tangential to my story.

Yet I remember thinking, Where could one find a branch like that ever, so wonderfully suited for being a walking stick?

You can tell everybody this is your blog post

The trip did not get better. This is the first thing you should know. The very first. It is the first thing I will tell you of. This not-getting-better part.

Even after all of the poking. The prodding. The irradiating, yes. Even after the searchings of my luggage and subsequent interrobanging, the trip would not get better.

I regret to inform you my seat mate was wide awake and smelled of almonds.

She stared at my nose – without stop! – for the first three hours of our flight. I have never been a person able to read while having my nose stared at. Not me. I possess a great number of talents, it is true what you’ve heard, but that is not one. Stare all you like, dear reader, but please, not at this nose. Also not at these eyebrows.

At least not while I’m reading, please.

The notepad appeared during hour four. I believe that was when. She said, “Can I ask you some questions?”

I said, “Are you an air marshal?” The trip was not getting better. I told you.

But she said, “No, I’m just curious.”

Fine, then. It was fine. I said, “Fine”, and it went like this: