January 18, 2012
When we were childes, we acted as childes. Primarily, selfishly. Secondarily and in cahoots with the primary behavior, impatiently. Today, I want to talk again and more fruitfully about impatience.
When we were childes, haste led to as much waste as it cared to and we cared not a rat’s patootie. Our anxiousness to reach a desired end—a selfish end as often, percentage-wise, as the purported efficacy of latex prophylactics and germ-killing hand sanitizers—resulted in what I like to think of as the opportunity cost of impatience, aka the ADHD effect.
Instances: a] “I can’t wait for. . . my birthday/ Christmas/ Disney vacation/ field trip to the zoo.” (We’re going to the zoo, today, yup, yup, yup [spoken in short-bus drawl] —Bill Cosby pre-PC humor.) b] “I wish my dad would hurry-up, get home, whup my ass for harassing mom all day, as for now all I can do is tremble with trepidation.” (Pre-PC ass-whuppins) c] “I can’t believe I have to sit through this history class before recess—I am so gonna triumph at ‘smear the queer’ today.” (Pre-PC recreational activities.)
In other words, if our eyes are always on the prize (half-hearted apologies to the Apostle Paul), then our obsessions obscure the meantime. And in the meantime, wondrous things are bound to happen. Crappy things too, but this life is a crap-shoot, anyway. (*tunefully* Ya take the good, ya take the bad, ya take them both and there ya have . . .) Old time is a-flying, flowers are dying*, unsmelled along the way*, O evil day! if I were sullen while Earth herself is adorning, this sweet May-morning*, etc, etc.
It’s the meantime, I’m aiming at here. We rarely aim at the meantime. We either look ahead to great fun or ahead to certain doom; but in between, we tend towards shoe-gazing instead of star-gazing. We let our minds be filled with workaday blather and post-work whiskey-soddenings, justifying our wastrel ways with slow-as-Christmas-sabbaticals on the distant horizon or locomotive-barreling-bankruptcy emerging from the tunnel not far ahead. Granted these are sumptuous and devastating events, respectively, but the meantime is a no less worthy prospect in either case.
We are still in a pre-apocalyptic, pre-nuclear fall-out age (quarter-hearted apologies to Pat Robertson) and so there’s always something poetic going on outside the window. And you needn’t be a poet to recognize these things. Keep this on the DL, but you needn’t be a poet to write about these things either. So there you go, that’s one super [*cough* nerdy *cough*] cool way to spend the meantime. And an abundance of others. I won’t make a list right now to fill up a meantime of my own. That would be cheating, I think.
Know this: I’m preaching to the choir. And I’m the choir. I sincerely hope that you are truly content and make decent use of your meantime. If you’re like me, maybe you have recognized this as one of our minor flaws. (Minor, because in a post-PC world, we are not allowed to be FUBAR, we merely have pharmaceutically tweak-able quirks.) I am the choir and here is my chorus:
*tunefully* Perennial childe, wherefore your haste/ why gulp the juice/ only to lose/ all but the yucky aftertaste?
Oh wait, beg pardon, I almost forgot to mention what got me thinking this way and why it belongs in this blog. This week, I am a shoe-gazer. What am I so anxious for, so revving to arrive? My next round of chemo. I only take it one week a month and the next three weeks are recovery time. But the first week was so pansy (post-PC flippancy), I’m itching to give it another go. Get the show on the road. Shit or get off the pot. (My Temodar pamphlet says this will become a problem, so I’m sure to regret that colloquialism ere long!)
Fortunately for me, there are windows on either side of my desk. I see some geese. I see a stream. I hear a winter birdsong.
January 19, 2012
In an attempt to reach the bathroom last night, minus cane or illumination, I fell flat on my belly. Said belly is thankfully protuberant enough to have caught my fall before my face became the true smashee. I reached for a wall which in fact was an open doorway and, lacking the balance and strength to right myself in that split-second of entropic equilibrium, I fell.
I am happy to report that the worst damage done was to my side [see visuals page], which caught my bedside table on its way to the floor, and my wife’s heart rate which certainly spiked as she jumped out of bed to see what new pathetic-ness I had gotten myself into.