Small Repairs for a Lost Week

The week produced nothing of note. Some rain on Monday—real rain, the kind that makes you feel the city deserves it. A light in the bathroom gave up around Wednesday and is still dead because replacing it requires more forward planning than anything this week allowed. There may have been a Thursday. Hard to say now.

So: the weekend. Here are the things actually worth doing with it. Grow something—cherry tomatoes in a pot on the balcony if that’s all you have, but grow something that will eventually be edible and put on bread. The distance between seed and sandwich is satisfying in a way that almost nothing the week demanded of you is. Eat something that will change the color of your shit tomorrow morning, because the internet has documented exactly how to accomplish this and some of the foods involved are genuinely good. Get new music. Whatever you’ve been playing on repeat since March needs to stop, and something new needs to start—not tomorrow, now.

Walk the dog if the dog exists and has been waiting. Take an hour completely alone, no phone, no company, no agenda—not meditating, not being productive, just sitting with the slightly uncomfortable fact of your own existence in a quiet room. Punch a fascist if the opportunity presents itself. And then find someone and dance with them to music that would embarrass both of you sober, at close enough range that looking away is more uncomfortable than looking at each other. Make genuine eye contact. It’ll feel stupid. That’s the point.

The week is done. At least the weekend knows what it is.