This week I am without work and the days roll out before me like an endless white carpet. I don’t really have a problem with this; in fact I don’t really have a problem with anything: even the prospect of a life without purpose. Left to my own devices I can do nothing whatsoever for years at a stretch.
There is a gentle spirituality in idleness. To be contented with your lot; to have your feathers unruffled and be free of the need to ruffle anyone else’s; not racing around trying to get somewhere else when here will do quite nicely; to live a life of quiet contemplation: surely this is the way of the warrior.
There is nothing to be achieved; nothing to be maintained. There is nothing that can improve upon this moment (except for maybe a spot of Earl Grey).
My hair’s been less uptight too, of late, very much in the Einsteinian tradition. It abounds from my nostrils and auditory cavities. If I had known a few years ago what I know now I would never have started shaving the backs of my ears.
Trimming is futile.
Growing old gracefully is the name of the game. Already, the idea of standing slipper-shod in the middle of a busy pavement muttering to myself has begun to appeal. Personally I can’t wait until I have a wheelchair, a tartan blanket to cover the knees and an ear trumpet with which to annoy people by pretending I’m deaf.
You have to get your jollies where you can.