Friday, July 15, 2005

es gibt

Time has become meaningless. No, I don't mean that in any sort of metaphysical, philosophical, or any other ical way, I mean, simply, that time has really become increasingly less important to me to such a degree where it is actually unimportant, irrelevant. Sitting here, right now, I am feeling awake, I am not hungry, and I've got a coffee beside me. Judging by the light coming in my office window I'd say that it is daytime, but, when exactly, I do not know. Sure, I could look at a clock, but what fun would that be?

See, the thing is this: My new-ish job sees me working nights during the week and sleeping during the morning, only to wake in the early- to mid-afternoon. You know, whenever I feel like waking up. During the weekend, however, I do not adhere to this schedule, and find myself sleeping and eating whenever I like. After more than two months, the result is this: my natural time sense, of which I was previously so proud, has been completely demolished - and I have never felt so liberated.

It used to be, when I was unemployed, that I would cite lack of structure as the primary reason for my idleness. I had no schedule, nothing to do, so I did nothing at all; too much time, much too aware of time. My writing suffered, and I literally had to force myself to produce even the roughest of writings (the whole of which can be found right here on this blargh between the months of November, 2004 and April, 2005). Outside of this blargh, I did very little work. In fact, I almost would have called it writer's block if I believed in such a thing.

So, how can it be that I find myself in this spot where I'm much more productive now that I am once again lacking structure? Because lack of structure was never my enemy - it was time all along. Before, I was much too aware, and now I am completely unaware. The result is this: I'm suffering from a reverse writer's block of sorts. Too many ideas, too many words, an absence, and indeed, an abundance of time.

Today I resumed work on an increasingly long essay covering Derrida and reason (which, I think, should be completed fairly soon-ish), but I quickly found myself distracted by all of this time weirdness. I found myself wanting to go off in search of it, to look at the clock above the oven, to switch on the television in an effort to give myself some sort of time reference - but, I've done none of these things. I wrote this post instead, and discovered another reason to blargh: to distract myself (and others).

A blackbird flies by
the clock tower at night
unaware, unaware.

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