Sunday, January 25, 2009


Another things that’s relevant to being awfully busy this quarter is that when I’m not—like today, when I’m in one of the “eye of the hurricane” moments between grading and prepping—I don’t know what to do with myself.

That itself is a kind of funny locution; it really suggests a commitment to dualism to which I’m not even committed, but the idea is the same in any case: I’ve got this time on my hands, time in which I certainly ought to be getting ahead in the game, being responsible, taking care of business, at least lubing my bike chain, but with which I’m something at a loss about how to spend. Consequently, I totter around the house, doing little odds and ends—vacuuming, paying bills, stacking stacks of paper in new ways—without really accomplishing anything, not that I want to, anyway.

Fortunately, my contribution to our shared cultural legacy—yet another thrilling episode of 327 Words¬—earns me the right to be a slug the other 23 hours and 40-some minutes a day, and I’ve relatively few qualms about availing myself of that right.

And that’s a good thing because as it stands otherwise, I can hardly bring myself to read the New York Times—and surely not the Week in Review section, much less the Magazine.

The sad thing about this is that days like today can’t be banked somehow. It would be delightful if I could put these few hours on ice and extract that at a later date when I could really use the time. Next Sunday, for instance, I’m sure I’ll want some extra time to savor the Steelers victory in Superbowl XLIII and I’ll look back fondly on this afternoon when I had the time to do nothing more than ruminate on how much time I have.

A library visit is probably in order, too; I may still be at a loss over what to do, but at least I can browse.


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