December 22nd, 2021
Boredom Is A Bookmark If You Look At It Right
At Eppley with my head pressed against the window. Eyes closed. Waiting.
I’ve been doing nothing lately. Absolutely nothing. Which goes against my better judgement of being productive, making something of myself. I should be looking for work. Spending more time at the bindery. Writing. Working tirelessly against the inevitable clock to leave behind a piece of myself (Why I don’t know). Only I don’t feel like it. It’s not that I’m bored. Or lazy. I’m simply taking a vacation for the holidays and staying open to the idea that any and all possibilities can happen at any moment and change the course of my life, eventually.
I’ve been spending my days reading Kafka’s Trial. Watching foreign films at Film Stream. Listening to Robert Wyatt. Alice Coltrane. Vince Guaraldi’s A Charlie Brown Christmas. It started after I completed the final box of RHETORIC (a perspective). After that I didn’t care very much to do anything at all. I came home. Threw on Holst’s Planets. Smoked a joint. Sat back. And did nothing. For about a week (Which is when Karthauser surprised me at the theater ((I was seeing The Hand of God ((( I was the only one in there ((((the ONLY one (((((This is one of my favorite feelings, being alone in a giant theater, smack dab in the center with that giant screen up there all just for me))))) wearing a gator over his face and scared the shit out of me
((I wasn’t expecting someone to charge down the aisle and plop right down in the seat next to me slamming a bottle of Port right in my lap)).
Open it up, he says with a big smile on his face. I do. And we begin passing the bottle back and forth as young Fabietto explores the dusty caverns of the Baroness ((Afterword we get an Uber from Tajikistan (((A ‘stan I had never heard of ((((Because I’m ignorant)))) The driver hears we’re going to a goth party at Nite Owl and cranks up the music and turns on a strobe light as we barrel down Dodge only to end up dancing among the living dead during an orgiastic death dance at a seance with Crabrangucci orchestrating the whole thing then later walking home drunk and happy, dragging Carly Scott and Taylor out of her house at 2 AM to play pool until 4 and then waking up hungover only to find ourselves at the Underwood for Bloody Mary’s and whiskey gingers rambling back down 50th picking up two strangers outside Amsterdam by comparing our brown shoes (((All four of us were wearing brown))) and then playing more pool only to later pass out at 2 in the afternoon ((((I woke up at 11 thinking it was early morning (((((Maybe five))))) only to realize I had another seven hours left tossing and turning and so suffering the next day (((((Which is a good reason to lay off the sauce for a while and to refocus on things of importance ((((((You know, like making something of myself))))))). Which is fine by me. The whole thing took it out of me, anyway. So there’s nothing left I can do. For now.
The pilot says something over the loudspeaker. I don’t hear a word of it. And then we are moving at an incredible rate. I feel the turbines in my bones. The whole thing vibrating violently as we are thrust forward into indifferent space, the cabin dark. The outside world too. I like it. Everything out of my control, out of reach. And all I have to do is sit and wait and wonder (Another one of my favorite things to do.) And I think to myself as the suburban world below displays itself in pretty patterns of light and esoteric symbols of human existence,
“I’ve never been bored a day in my life.”
Which is true. I never have. I don’t even know what that means. To be bored. Even when I look back to times of idleness, seemingly existential moments of inertia, there was movement. I always occupied my time (Not necessarily with anything that materialized, but that filled a space to breathe and think or allow my mind to process without the ego getting in the way of it. ((Sure there are better ways to spend idle time other than watching television or going on a bender (((Which I would actually argue that ((((If you’re motivated enough (((((And self-conscious enough ((((((Without relying on crutches to pull you up and out of this dark abyss))))))) there is utility in every aspect of life so long as the perspective holds true.)
Boredom does not exist for me. I don’t believe in it. To me it is a placeholder for those who are incapable of giving meaning and direction to their lives.
It is their soul crying out, “THIS ISN’T WHAT I WANT TO BE DOING AT THE MOMENT! CHANGE COURSE IMMEDIATLEY!” This is a perfect opportunity to act contrary to your nature. To go against the grain. Swim upstream. Boredom is a distraction from LIFE. From challenge. The struggle. Instead of going to bed with the uncomfortable. (I say put a rock in your shoe to remind you. Leave the loose cuticle by your nail ((You know the little piece of skin that tears away when you put your hand in your pocket or get it caught on a piece of paper))).
I twist and turn in my seat. Try to get comfortable at thirty-five thousand feet. My mind a maelstrom. A convoluted labyrinth of realistic magicalism (Which is contrary to magical realism). Thoughts drift in and out and I watch them like foreign films, sometimes understanding the movement but not necessarily what’s being said (Suddenly I think of words that sound like their representation ((Like squiggle or round)).
And it is during this archaic act that I grasp at the realization that our culture is to blame (With television and the energy drink work week, the GO! GO! GO! mentality reeking havoc on potential and possibly our blood streams all for the dollar and another day going at it a hundred miles an hours and the way it gets displayed in tabloids and magazines and billboards and commercials ((The big dream of making it BIG (((That tiny word containing so much definition))). It has somehow gained speed under our feet and we have forgotten what it means to be still. To sit with ourselves. Let everything pass through us without holding on and understand what it is that’s within us. What that feeling is trying to say.
The cabin lights come back on. Everyone starts moving about. I am still. Completely still. I can’t hear a thing other than the wind ripping past the wings outside my window. I just sit with my head against it staring out at my reflection and the kid playing on his phone next to me. Soon the world will light up again and all at once come rushing at me with demands and conversation. There will be opportunity and suggestivity. There will be the cantankerous music of you and me going at it, all at once. We will come alive.
And I’ll be grateful for the grace and the little bit of time that I sat in perfect peace, doing nothing, waiting against the better judgement of the world.
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