04 February 2001 ~ A new kind of nothing...

"The only success with which a writer might be meaningfully concerned, is how successfully his or her adjectives exude their flavors, his or her syntax drums out its cadence, his or her metaphors eternalize their phrases, or whether or not, when their nouns meet their verbs, the verbs yell out, "Gotcha, baby!" For the task of the writer is not to attain recognition or reward but to meditate upon our passing world and, through the working magic of language, awaken in the solitary reader a sense of wonder at that world." --Tom Robbins

I'm not hungover anymore. Tom Robbins kicks my ass harder than just about anything.

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It's nearly four in the morning. I've been barricaded in my house for over twenty-four hours now. No, that's not quite true. At noon yesterday, I went out and got the mail, in which I found a beautiful postcard from my advisor at college. This was the highlight of my day. Actually, it's a little refreshing to actually spend a ridiculous amount of time (as in, more than three hours) doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

I sometimes say I'm doing nothing, but that's never really true. I'm typing an entry, or I'm reading, or I'm making love, or I'm twisting my hands and counting hours until I have to be at work. All of these things really ARE nothing, but they're an anxious sort of nothing, with a beginning and an end in mind: a beginning of a book, an end to sex, and those stupid fucking asterisks I have in my entries. Milan Kundera says there are three kinds of boredom; I can't remember what they are right now, but I think I personally discovered a new one today.

I watched television, which, unlike writing or reading or making love, does not require any brain activity whatsoever. This does not count as having "done something." I went to the bathroom, which also doesn't count, because it too requires minimal brain-activity, although probably more than watching television. I carried out the basic life processes: breathing, eating, consuming beverages, checking the David Lynch messageboard to see if anyone had answered any of my dumbassed posts... And that's absolutely it.

And then, when I really was tired of doing nothing, I made plans. My plans included bathing, and looking up the titles of the Tom Robbins books I don't have, at which point I became inspired by an interview I found, and also my own lack of activity. Doing nothing is like, profound and stuff. As a matter of fact, I didn't even THINK for most of the day. I could have done dishes, I could have done laundry, I could have rented movies, I could have gone to the Art Theater, I could have had tea at Lost Dog... But no, I did nothing. When television became too profound for me (and let's face it, old Keanu Reeves movies are pretty damned profound), I switched the station so as not to over-exert myself.

The hours passed slowly, imperceptibly. Instead of a three-minute cigarette break, today was like a twenty-minute break smoking an unfiltered clove cigarette.

I have not spoken to anyone today except the cat. I didn't have much to say to her, so I didn't say much. My vocal cords are rested. My brain is rested. My body, stuck in one or two positions all day, is rested.

The most profound thought I've had all day, at least until I looked up Tom Robbins on Yahoo, has been a vague ponderance of why, everytime I turn on the radio, "Hell's Bells" by AC/DC is playing. The second-most profound thought I've had all day was "dude, my pet DJ sorta looks like Tom Robbins..." The third-most profound thought I've had all day has been, "Gee, I like orange juice."

It's times like these I wish I had a penpal to share my brilliance with.

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Actually, at this point, I'm going a little nuts from having basically slept while fully conscious ALL DAY, so I'm going to go read something deep and meditate.

Love,
~Helena*

"You don't need to leave your room.
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Don't even listen, simply wait."
Don't even wait.
Be quite still and solitary.
The world will offer itself freely to you.
To be unmasked, it has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet."
--Kafka, (as quoted by Tom Robbins).