Blasphemous Boredom

Occupying just a few square inches of space, I am amazed and appreciative of the hours and hours of pleasure experienced through learning via the thought-provoking, mind-expanding, and vocabulary-enriching content of books. My new favourite thing to do is to read as I listen to the audio book of same. This extended self-isolation permits my conscious mind to glaze over and be overtaken by that which I am reading. I guiltily admit how much I am enjoying my little bubble of solitude, days spent reading and writing , singing and playing, they pass so quickly! I don’t understand at all « stir crazy » and « bored » as the sentiment incurred from this surprise end of the world as we know it. It’s repulsive. Testimony of a terribly lame mind.

And what about just being? You in nothingness. Are you so unsatisfied, unfamiliar with yourself? Your real self. No lens. No reflection. Introspection fed/starved by distraction.

The world will be forever changed after this. Even after eighteen days, I still find it all so hypnagogic, which is my new favourite word. I was irritating myself at calling this « all so surreal » so often that I checked a thesaurus and this one word was offered as an alternative. It’s perfect. Hypnagogic. And a massage-for-the-mouth to say.

So life unfolds behind closed doors. My aunt has just let me know that my mother called 911 to find out the date and time. It’s not the first time. The healthcare workers in her nursing home aren’t too happy. I’m angry. In trying to write a single sentence explaining why I’m angry, I resolved my feelings of anger and am back at acceptance and understanding of the rich colour she is in the pièce de résistance that is moi. The sweet 25-year-old has such a pure soul. I have one cigarette left in the freezer. I bask in the absence of the mirror of eyes which are, too often, « a face prepared to meet a face » (T.S. Eliot). Girls like us flourish. A second flooding, of sorts, much needed. I revel in the silent pause and likewise simultaneously anticipate the unknown aftermath.

Francisco, I think of you intensely during all this, the only human I’ve ever met who doesn’t listen to music, how I have been and am still in awe of you and understand how at peace your soul is, how not needy of distraction your pure mind is. You will be fine in all this. I am fine, too, and I have spent each day in silence, no music, though I do not equate myself with your greatness, but congratulate myself for seeing it.

« If a man’s imagination were not so weak, so easily tired, if his capacity for wonder not so limited, he would…learn to perceive in water, leaves, and silence more than sufficient of the absolute marvelous, more than enough to console him for the loss of the ancient dreams. » (Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire)

I hope we realize and always remember how, when work went away, we started singing and creating and sharing our art for the sake of art. It’s our true soul, but we’ve been tricked into thinking we need to be industrious.  « People pay for their own subordination. Accepting a precarious job or paying thousands of euros for a postgraduate degree are signs of living in a society of grateful slaves. » (Chomsky). Brooks from The Shawshank Redemption. The very necessary microcosm of getting intoxicated at night to escape the machine is now happening in the macro and without the passkey of alcohol, so cleansing and essential and euphoric. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all see it and be that annoying thing that privileged, self-proclaimed-intellectuals call being « woke? »

Instead, the people say they are bored, ffs.

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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