10.12.00 - 12:20:00 EDT

I am almost dead.

It's a true statement, as I do believe it is possible to expire from complete and utter boredom. In the midst of summarizing Mr. J.M.'s medical records for a case. Mr. M. has been to many, many doctors. I am currently working on his GP's records - and he visited her every month for more than ten years. His complaints change, but only so very slightly, so it is an utter dead bore and I cannot just make the same entry for every visit. B. says I should dictate, but I'm tired. Also, I hate dictating. Also, my secretary, while bright, hasn't figured out some of the basics of her word processer, like tables and sorting and such, ergo, I'd hafta put it all in order before...

...yeah, well, no. Anyway, B. can bite me. I've caught his cold.

These little initials aren't accurate, perhaps. Nevertheless I like them a good bit. Consider them a decorative feature - so very nineteenth century. I should have been born in the nineteenth century, corsets and lack of bathing notwithstanding. I rather like the intellectual heat, the sense of restrained chaos, the maddening possibilities of the future opening into a million slick little wrought-iron flowers.

I am absolutely serious. In some ways, I dream it was both a more intellectually vigorous age and a more innocent age. I suppose I should place my 19th century dream after Darwin and before World War I, likely a good bit before, but I do have fantasia-like dream-spinnings about the Edwardian age - the imagistes, the first hints of modernism in dance and theater and music and poetry and painting - Picasso doing sets for the Diaghelev-troupe's Nijinski-choreagraphed and performed Rite of Spring by Stravinsky.

Oh. Oh gods. The Ballets Russes and splendid Paris and Virginia Woolf and and and...

...now I trundle back to the real world. I promise myself I'll finish at least two years before even looking back here. Eeesh.

This is so amusing.

Okay, it isn't so amusing. Nevetheless, I'm amused. Whomever copied these records apparently made three copies each of the treatment notes for 1996 and 1997. C. - who reviewed them initially - didn't notice. His highlighting is on every page, but not consistently. Add up each of the duplicative records and he has probably highlighted the entire thing.

Actually I despise highlighters.

I think whoever invented them should be shot. Dead. Slowly.

Most people are too stupid to use highlighters. The intelligent use of highlighters means you pull out the important bits and leave the effluvia - you bring something that will tell you something quickly to the fore and allow the rest to recede.

Most people go wild. Then again, most people think The Celestine Prophecy is fuckin' profound, so what does that tell you?

Another story about C. later. Meantime, more work for me.

More work, finished. Strange for me, and possibly you, as this is a short map to my moment to moment morning, without any sense of the expansive range of time. You'll read it in ten minutes. For me - this and various other things - lasted for four hours. I plan to continue meandering this afternoon, if only because it provides a suitable outlet for my low-winging, just below-the-radar thoughts. Nevertheless, this entry may well end here.

It's time for lunch, and I'm going out. I should save this in case S. unleashes another latent love bug virus upon a network.

We've taken to calling S. Typhoid Mary. Personally, I'd like to see S. in falsies.

Peaceout. LunchMunch calls. (Mexican!)