Gobbledygook

          Excepting when I was a boy, when it was considered a justly earned right, I never was entirely comfortable with the notion of idleness, of indulging that legacy negotiated privilege of dragging oneself listlessly about, lamenting the deep and utter tragedy of having rather nothing at all to do. That is not to say that I have inured myself to her particular treacheries; on the contrary, I have on innumerable occasions found myself frequenting that gilded boudoir, finding that intoxication comes more swiftly and sinks deeper than from the headiest of wines, yet once lain there is little will to excise oneself from the soft sheets, to lose sight of the froufrou on the discarded dress, a reminder of last night’s gaieties, or to face the twin colossi entreating vigilantly outside the curtained door, that of left and right shoe. But as I now have wiped the opiated clouds from my eyes (and have since rejoined the mag- nanimous ranks of fellow rehabilitatees and their earnest twelve-step program), I unequivocally strive to never return to her bedchambers, to allow myself to wallow in that state of disinterested discontent, as if that, and not its antithesis, is some noble pursuit, and not the affect of, to be frank, a giant ass. I am learning the lesson of focus, and effort, and commitment, those paragons of industry, of contribution useful to me and mine; and that nothing is quite as unforgivable as believing you should be entitled to complain of boredom, or to, out of it, terrorize the hoi polloi, erroneously thinking that fighting for nothing is in fact standing for something (it’s not). Idleness’ diverse range of manifestations aside, the brand most, I suppose, native to me (or perhaps endemic to my trade) is the kind arising only when I am ulteriorly trying to get something done, which is to say deep in procrastination, inertia long having flatlined, almost having forgotten the task altogether, yet unable to go on with my day as my mental faculties are caught in a vicious holding pattern, the paradoxical result of having a queued up task luring my earnest if naïve brain into thinking it is being productive, combined with the tendency of my affliction du jour (or every jour really) to conjure some dalliance for my flip-flop wearing, mai tai enjoying attention span to wander hopelessly into. Read: I am never better at doing nothing than when I am supposed to be doing something; while my physical self is numbly engaged in tedium, my mind remains unfulfilled, and that torpor, that unholy un-ness comes creeping up to the placid surface, its hungry and dark intention of pulling me back under written plainly, gleefully on its dead-eyed face. There may have once been a time when I was content with such a misappropriation of my time and energy, but perhaps it is a direct consequence of a vague maturation that I demand more now, that I must give a quick look to the mirror of the bureau, throw some pants on in the dark, strap on those shoes celebrating my return as I exit into the world, no longer content among lotus-eaters, and swear to myself to never go back. That once elusive vitality is now my steed, the intense momentum of newfound, self-given purpose my bow, and work, of all its kind, my quarry – what ultimately must remain within us is that desire to fight back and to fight on against idleness, to always be curious and adventurous. Inspiration is the easiest escape from doldrums but sustainment is difficult, and it is only recently that I have begun to see that constant exercise, whether inspired or not, is perhaps the hardiest train to board; that practice does in fact make perfect, eventually; that daily impromptu beginnings are the surest way to endings; and that we must keep vigor at our nuclei.