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unemployment and the beard
Jan. 9th, 2006 | 11:22 pm
music: The Offspring - Why Don't You Get A Job
I believe I have reached a new level of unemployment: I've grown a beard. Or, at least my best effort's patchy equivalent. I'm almost done with the itchy phase.
It's too easy to piss away a day. I had a thought, around 2 this afternoon. I'd just finished a Dan Brown book, one I'd been reading since this morning -- the same morning I'd risen from my bed, fresh and ready to get some real writing done. I thought the time we have, from our first breath to our last, can be likened to a single day. Hours had been used reading this book, the details of which have already begun to fade from memory. I had procrastinated. My will had not overcome the more immediate distraction of the book. Then it was 2 pm, and the day more than half over.
It struck me that aging, year by year, was similar. The moments are measured in months, not minutes, but follows like rules. I'm 24, right now. That's about, what... 10 am in our life-in-a-day? I woke up, had some breakfast (school), got ready to work (college, moved to LA), and now it's solidly mid-morning. Time for business.
But today I picked up a book. And I was afraid I'd set it down and I'd be 35. It's silly, I know, but it's what I'm thinking about.
So, I get angry at myself. And frustrated at my lack of discipline. I make thousands of silent, mental decisions throughout the day, from the mundane to not-very-interesting. Going, coming, what kind of sandwich to make for lunch, etc. But the most important are these little choices about what I should do with my time. I'm always thinking about writing. The only time I'm not is when I'm writing, or when I'm mentally thinking through a writing-related problem. That said, there is a repeated conflict that often comes in the form of an urge. It seems the more I want to write (but am not actually writing), the stronger the urges are. I'm poised at the keyboard, mid-sentence, or maybe just on my way to the office, when it comes: how 'bout some cashews? or, What's that magazine say? Hey, look up Bernini on Wikipedia. I know I shouldn't, but there is always the killer argument: There's plenty of time. You can write later.
On bad days, I fall for it, over and over. Then it's 2 pm. Then 4. Then that golden-orange light of a sunset comes. I'm turning on the lamps. Halbe gets home. Dinner, some TV, and then it's to bed and a silent promise that tomorrow, tomorrow I'll get some real writing done.
Should I write an entry detailing what I'm thinking about, or should I go to bed at a decent hour so I'll be well rested for tomorrow?
Page count: 102 (barely)
It's too easy to piss away a day. I had a thought, around 2 this afternoon. I'd just finished a Dan Brown book, one I'd been reading since this morning -- the same morning I'd risen from my bed, fresh and ready to get some real writing done. I thought the time we have, from our first breath to our last, can be likened to a single day. Hours had been used reading this book, the details of which have already begun to fade from memory. I had procrastinated. My will had not overcome the more immediate distraction of the book. Then it was 2 pm, and the day more than half over.
It struck me that aging, year by year, was similar. The moments are measured in months, not minutes, but follows like rules. I'm 24, right now. That's about, what... 10 am in our life-in-a-day? I woke up, had some breakfast (school), got ready to work (college, moved to LA), and now it's solidly mid-morning. Time for business.
But today I picked up a book. And I was afraid I'd set it down and I'd be 35. It's silly, I know, but it's what I'm thinking about.
So, I get angry at myself. And frustrated at my lack of discipline. I make thousands of silent, mental decisions throughout the day, from the mundane to not-very-interesting. Going, coming, what kind of sandwich to make for lunch, etc. But the most important are these little choices about what I should do with my time. I'm always thinking about writing. The only time I'm not is when I'm writing, or when I'm mentally thinking through a writing-related problem. That said, there is a repeated conflict that often comes in the form of an urge. It seems the more I want to write (but am not actually writing), the stronger the urges are. I'm poised at the keyboard, mid-sentence, or maybe just on my way to the office, when it comes: how 'bout some cashews? or, What's that magazine say? Hey, look up Bernini on Wikipedia. I know I shouldn't, but there is always the killer argument: There's plenty of time. You can write later.
On bad days, I fall for it, over and over. Then it's 2 pm. Then 4. Then that golden-orange light of a sunset comes. I'm turning on the lamps. Halbe gets home. Dinner, some TV, and then it's to bed and a silent promise that tomorrow, tomorrow I'll get some real writing done.
Should I write an entry detailing what I'm thinking about, or should I go to bed at a decent hour so I'll be well rested for tomorrow?
Page count: 102 (barely)