Time flies when you're having fun?

Seventeen days: it's been that long since my last post, but I'm not quite sure where those seventeen days went. One of my favorite "edgy" novelists, the late Henry Miller, wrote that "When you forget to eat you know you're alive." I think he was trying to say that if you are so immersed in "authentic life projects" that food becomes secondary, or an afterthought, you are "living the good life." But right about now, I'd say "not so much."

When you're busy, life speeds up. A whole month can go by and you say, "Where in the hell did February go?" And I suppose that's better than twiddling your thumbs, looking at the clock, and hoping to make it through just one more hour or one more day of existence. (Some people who yearn for immortality hardly know what to do with themselves for an entire Saturday afternoon!) Still, the balance point between "activity" and "inactivity" in our culture is clearly not in the middle of such a continuum.

I'm haunted by passages such as this one in Miller's novel Plexus: "Finally it came about that I remained away from the office three days handrunning. It was just a sufficient break to make it impossible for me to return. Three glorious days and nights, doing exactly what I pleased, eating well, sleeping long, enjoying every minute of the day, feeling immeasurably rich inside, losing all ambition to battle with the world, itching to begin my own private life, confident of the future, done with the past, how could I go back into harness?

Hmm. I have a book in mind that I'd like to write. I'll call it "Civilization and its Discontents." (Catchy title, dontcha think?)

My goal: to eat, belch, and watch movies

The Contentious One has been neglecting this site for a couple of weeks, proving once again that a person can only do so much. And that indeed is my Thought for the Day. (When you Capitalize Something, it makes it seem more profound and important.)

As I go through the daily grind, I am struck by the demands of life and how much depends on proper execution of a series of mundane tasks.

I'm driving to work: if I'm inattentive at the wrong moment, suddenly I'm in the ditch, or injured, or dead.

I'm paying bills: if I miss one and don't catch the omission, the Visa people will tack on a ridiculous late fee and my credit rating may suffer. (And don't get me started on tax season! In our household, that's a project unto itself, chock full of lovely details.)

I'm chopping vegetables: and suddenly I remember seasoned chefs at my very first employer, Diamond Jim's Nightclub, with parts of their fingers missing.

I'm teaching a class: and then I realize I need to check out the appropriate video, remember that so-and-so was gone last time, so-and-so needs to make up the last exam, and so-and-so needs to see me after class. (And that the section of the text I'm dealing with I haven't actually re-read anytime in the last six months!)

I'm rushing around in the morning: and at that moment I mentally take in all the things I need to do today and all the places I need to be, and how my perceived competence depends on getting everything right--being in the right place at the right time and doing the right things in the right way.

Indeed, if I AM doing everything right, no one will notice and life will proceed smoothly. (Which, in a weird way, is ironic and even unfortunate--if you're doing things right, it can all be so seamless that people don't even appreciate what's involved.) But to make all that happen requires an intense devotion to being on-task, and a constant demand to prove to yourself and to the world that you can do it.

I look forward to the day when maybe my only tasks will be to eat, belch, and watch movies from Blockbuster. As I have argued elsewhere, there is a neurotic underpinning to Western Civilization, based on getting things done, and in a certain manner, that can weigh down even the most anal-retentive individual. In fact, the more anal, the more this is the case! Hmm--the Contentious Introvert may be ready for retirement, but retirement isn't ready for him for at least ten years.