Being Boring

'I'm trying to sort out my nomenclature; I'm determined to determine from what it is I suffer. I thought it was boredom, but it may be from torpor. I'm currently skimming the literature.

'I read Bertrand Russell in a fit of idleness; an excellent essay free from any kind of dullness. To appreciate it required that I lie in repose. (My preferred position when it comes to good prose.)

'I tackled Adam Phillips from the psychiatrist's chair, where the unconscious and subconscious were gradually laid bare. I learned a Ms Spacks links the novel to tedium; a pertinent discovery for one who loves the medium.

'Carol Mavor's Reading Boyishly is a damned good book. I flicked through the index and then took a look at the pages that referred to boredom and labor [sic]. The stuff, apparently, that made Proust and Ackerman tick.

'It was in a state of ennui that I yielded and gave in to the knowledge that my accidie was, in fact, a cardinal sin. I renounced the modern, espoused Medieval scholarship. Believe me, it's hard to beat self-flaggelation with a horse-whip.

'But, my lassitude's flagging; I'm beginning to get lazy. My aversion to working is driving me crazy. My apathy is starting to make me feel weary. If I don't engage soon, life might begin to get dreary.'

The Point of 0.6 (3)

Slacking

'The problem is, they exhaust your good will,' balancing one-legged on the office windowsill.

'The consequence? The temptation is to start slacking when one's hard slog is ignored yet the whip is apparently still cracking'.  She stuck out her right leg and pointed the toe.  Then she raised her left arm above her head. 'Surely, my dear colleagues, this is the reality we all inhabit,' she said.

From the corner: 'and what's happened to your Protestant work ethic?' he sniped. He was now suffering from frequent headaches and the need for an occasional gripe.

'Alas my father was an atheist; I never made it to the font. No christening gown for me. No ceremony nor pomp. What interests me is that while orthodox religion turns me queazy, makes me feel slightly sick, I generally consider myself, my views, quite catholic.' She bent her head momentarily to admire her new shoes. Pearl-pink, snug-fitting and chamois-soled. Her next purchase, she'd promised herself, would be a tutu.

'I'm sorry, I digress. I was dreaming of my new dress. Where was I?' She twisted her head close to 180 degrees, positioned her arms at right angles to her torso and bent her knees. Her next project was to turn on one foot without losing her poise.

'You were advocating slacking,' he interjected. 'Or were you talking about vomitting?'

'No, actually, I was saying I often feel quite catholic. But, yes, that's precisely why, historically, I've often found myself retching. It's akin, I'm sure, to the ritual of confession. Rid yourself, cleanse yourself of all you despise and loath; all you hate, can't cope with and regret. A form of purification, I suspect.  Well, I'm guessing.'

'And the slacking?'

'Just learn to walk the line.'

'What?'

'I've always been in praise of idleness.'

'That's fine, but I have no idea what you mean.'

'OK, here goes: however hard you try they'll always manage to find you lacking. In the face of all this modern work-place crap my suggestion is why not try slacking?'

'Do nothing?'

'No. Not at all.  Rather, decide what's important and risk putting your neck on the line. My advice: learn to balance on a slack wire; in the business, it's called a slack-line.'