The Internet speed here is frightfully, jaw-crackingly, mind-numbingly slow, spelt s-l-o-w. It beggars belief and confounds all expectations. I could write and upload two entries in Taiwan with the internet speed I have here.
Weekend is going fairly well so far. I got most of my laundry done. I've finally managed to publish my first entry in the ME, despite sketchy bandwidth, a photoshop application that is incapable of multitasking, and a virus that I had to stop to google and terminate. I've also just finished two cans of Mr. Brown coffee, comfortingly Taiwanese - but at the same time I despair; am I doomed to instant or refrigerated coffee for the duration of my assignment here? Time was when I delighted in coffee, any and every sort of coffee, in all its granular, instant, cheaply garish glory. Not so anymore; I am getting too old for bad coffee. Somewhere along the journey of life I have learnt to differentiate between good and bad coffee. Wine appraisal will probably take a bit more time, more so since I've tried to swear myself off alcohol, but it'll come in time.
I've been reading 'A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again' by David Foster Wallace. The name was vaguely familiar when I first came across it yesterday. The title and the premise intrigued me, and I've been reading it on and off for the better part of the weekend. His writing style is one of my favourites - acerbic, saturnine and dry observations of how his fellow human beings interact with the environment they are situated in. My only complaint would be that his wording is a little too grandiose, as if he is thumbing his nose up at us less-endowed wordsmiths: look at me and my endlessly expansive vault of vocabulary! Nonetheless, I do admire his writing style, and I wondered how old he was now and looked him up, only to discover that he'd committed suicide 8 years ago, at the age of 46. I was quite distraught. I wonder is this is the hallmark of all good authors; that one must be steeped in negative emotions to produce truly good writing? A year ago, Jake told me that he didn't want me to be depressed in order to be inspired. Maybe that's why I've become an exponentially worse writer; I've learnt to manage disillusionment and disappointments better as I've grown older, which to a certain extent means that I've disengaged myself from my emotions, and concurrently the quality of my writing has gone down.
What wouldn't I give for a fresh brew of black coffee from Familymart! My dreams are very small.
We wandered round some more. That was a LOT of walking we did. There were a lot of people trundling round with not one, but two walking sticks, and Jake and I had a good giggle at them. A few hours on, we began to see their point.
Art gallery galore, and an elusive advertised ice cream which I just could not locate, despite my very best efforts.
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