sundays, anyone?
weekends would be better without sunday afternoons.
another one has come and gone and i've done far less than i planned on doing and i'm also painfully aware that i have less money left than i had planned.
this is not any sort of lament. think of it as a deconstruction of sunday afternoons.
there is a tension here, an unspoken one, that exists in the transition from weekend to work week. it causes us to question the activities that give us pleasure. The boredom of it, the recuperation and steeling oneself to return to work in the morning, it seems like it should be a motivating force.
Except that it isn't.
there is no motivation to be found here, only malaise and ennui. a profound boredom that feels endless and we almost desire the return to work in order to escape it. add to it a nauseous anxiety about money and love and sex and ourselves. We are allowed to reflect on sunday afternoons as we do laundry and listen to music. It gives us a moment to notice that most of us are wasting our lives.
And inside all of this is a desire to simply connect in a real way with other human beings; to feel, if only for a moment, the empathetic presence of some other person. but also not the same old people. the hate i feel for sunday afternoons is a hatred for the absence of novelty in it. I want, now, to connect with new people. to feel again the thrill of friday night spent in a throng of beautiful strangers. held in thrall and enthralling, a tango for the thrill of social dominance, teeth and bodies pressed together.
even thinking about it makes me sick.
so i listen to eurodance, think about what Id like to eat for dinner and set loose the fifth column of my analytical faculties deconstructing this hollow want, when I should actually focus on my critique on the Lockean perception of property distribution which is due tomorrow.
another one has come and gone and i've done far less than i planned on doing and i'm also painfully aware that i have less money left than i had planned.
this is not any sort of lament. think of it as a deconstruction of sunday afternoons.
there is a tension here, an unspoken one, that exists in the transition from weekend to work week. it causes us to question the activities that give us pleasure. The boredom of it, the recuperation and steeling oneself to return to work in the morning, it seems like it should be a motivating force.
Except that it isn't.
there is no motivation to be found here, only malaise and ennui. a profound boredom that feels endless and we almost desire the return to work in order to escape it. add to it a nauseous anxiety about money and love and sex and ourselves. We are allowed to reflect on sunday afternoons as we do laundry and listen to music. It gives us a moment to notice that most of us are wasting our lives.
And inside all of this is a desire to simply connect in a real way with other human beings; to feel, if only for a moment, the empathetic presence of some other person. but also not the same old people. the hate i feel for sunday afternoons is a hatred for the absence of novelty in it. I want, now, to connect with new people. to feel again the thrill of friday night spent in a throng of beautiful strangers. held in thrall and enthralling, a tango for the thrill of social dominance, teeth and bodies pressed together.
even thinking about it makes me sick.
so i listen to eurodance, think about what Id like to eat for dinner and set loose the fifth column of my analytical faculties deconstructing this hollow want, when I should actually focus on my critique on the Lockean perception of property distribution which is due tomorrow.
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