wednesdays are long
Once more the bar ticking. At the beginning of time periods (the morning, the early afternoon, the last few classes) the minutes seem to disappear with astonishing speed every time I turn my head round to look at the clock in despair, but then there are times, like in the last hour or half-hour of the day – though what difference does it make in the long run? – when I can see them inching by. In Rayuela, la Maga describes time as “un bicho que anda y anda”, and that little line on my calendar that I look at almost non-stop for about twelve hours a day is an excellent metaphor for the way time passes in general.
It’s nearly eight. I’ve got forty-three minutes left before I finish. I should be happy, the time should pass more quickly (forty-two minutes now) but I can’t avoid thinking about after class, tonight, my backpack and all the things I have to do before bed, having a drink, having several drinks, tomorrow morning and late morning and afternoon and evening and Friday, then the weekend – I work – then the days going on and on and seeming to stretch out infinitely. What am I counting down to? My holidays? (The first week of December.) Christmas? (I could care less.) My birthday? (God, another year no; I feel old enough as it is.)
Thirty-eight minutes. No, thirty-seven now. I’ve been all day with my water bottle basically glued to my lips in the hopes of alleviating God only knows what, maybe nerves. I should start drinking more (alcohol) now that I have the money to do it, but when one has the money one hasn’t the time, isn’t that always the way? I keep looking for some kind of solace in my friends, stupid conversations about the same thing, generally skiing, sex or general gossip. It’s healthy and not too taxing on the limited reserves of energy I tend to have in my cerebral cortex at the end of the day, and I always go home feeling better and a bit drunk. Or a lot drunk, depending on how bad of a day I’ve had. I’m a bit worried about turning into Nicholas Cage in that one film (except I can’t really see myself living with a prostitute, however sympathetic she may be to my cause). I don’t remember how it ends, though. I have a lovely student with whom I always end up talking about films – and I didn’t even know I was so much of a film buff until I had someone to talk about them with – and I think I need more art in my life, God forbid.
Speaking of which, my hand is getting better. My eye is getting better. Really, my general quality of life is improving (my waistline is also getting smaller, thank goodness) and maybe my (un-sharpened) pencil reflects that in some way, as does the speaking exams I’ve been giving people lately, which are getting progressively harder as is the edge of my voice at the end of every question. Spanish begins to become inadequate to express what I’m really thinking. My brain in general begins to become inadequate to process and understand what I’m really thinking. What a bloody paradox. Half an hour now. Twenty-seven minutes. I should be happy. I am happy. And yet I feel this sort of vague nagging unhappiness that tugs at the edges of my face and my shoulders and my fingertips and lets me sleep just fine, but doesn’t let me concentrate at odd hours of the morning and afternoon. Curiouser and curiouser.
Somehow I feel my life becoming one big, immense, rather, to-do list. The more I push myself the shorter it gets, which I suppose is a positive sign of something or other, but it’s never quite empty and I’m consequently never quite easy in my mind as long as I know it’s there, black letters on cheerfully-coloured digital post-its leering at me a little bit. All the daily things I don’t even bother writing down, like going home and putting all my clothes back in their place as I take them off, tossing my shoes in the closet, packing my backpack for the next day, taking off my contact lenses, tidying, public relations with my flatmates (the minimum possible). Stupid. I do everything on autopilot now and never manage to think everything through. It’s weird, though, rather than being like a zombie I’m actually having the time of my life. Maybe I should decide whether I’m happy or sad before starting to write, you think, Chris? (Eighteen minutes.)
I like the way the water feels as it inches slowly down my throat, chilling the inside of my stomach a little and waking me up. The more I count the minutes, the more slowly they pass. Ten. Nine. I’m going to close the windows. Spontaneous shutdown process initiated.
