the urge to trash everything i can manage without is strong. i sweep up the little piles of cat hair & dirt tracked in from wet shoes, suddenly transported to a younger, stupider, prettier me just with one deep inhalation of the perfume that persists on the dust pan which i used to sweep up the bottle broken by fat cat early one morning. by the second inhalation my reason has caught up with memory, dispelling the transitory happiness with something tangy, like regret or pity. i never thought cleaning could be so taxing.
a coworker lent me snoop by some such doctor at some such university. engaging, though i wish that it weren't written to mimic conversation aimed at someone less learned (being full of candor it missed being insulting). i think: uh-huh, right, right, got it, yup, yup, pick-up-the-pace-already. (i felt the same way about guns, germs, & steel; is it time to start generalizing about soft-science books?).
it cited a definition of self-identity, &, surprise!, it hinges on continuity & causality. i'm not quibbling with the definition; i just don't understand the necessity for "an inner story of the self that integrates the reconstructed past, perceived present, and anticipated future to provide a life with unity, purpose, and meaning" (dan mcadams). it feels disingenuous.
husband has overwhelmed the desk with shit. i hesitate to move his haphazardly piled miscellany lest he need to locate something, but will he even remember? oh, i meant, "intuit" where he left it? i should gather empirical evidence.
yup. science conquers all.