Watching the world pass by on my couch
I have nothing to do. My preferred position is an almost horizontal slouch, my feet propped up on the coffee table, my head slumped forward, my chin nearly touching my chest.
Usually, the television is on. Oh let us give thanks for cable TV -- 57 channels and never a dull moment. I now know all the channels by heart. TV Cinq? Simply press 35 (Oooh la la.) Deutsche Welle? Go straight to channel 44 (and Machen Sie es schnell bitte). After a Korean soap opera? 32. Filipino news? Why, channel 29 of course.
I no longer need to look at the remote to change channels. I am like a concert pianist whose intimacy with his instrument allows him to perform an entire concert blindfolded.
I have mastered even its most obscure mysteries, including the "Jump" button. In my hands the remote is a sensual thing, a mysterious living creature whose tiny rubber buttons I gently caress.
I really ought to do something. One of life's greatest mysteries is this: We learn quite early on in the piece that we are not going to live for ever, that one day we are going to die.
Armed with this knowledge, one could be forgiven for assuming that people everywhere would choose to live their lives at a fever pitch of intensity, to climb mountains, to devour obscure knowledge like hungry lions, to run for president, sail around the world.
And of course, this is what some of us end up doing.
But for most of us, Everest remains unscaled, we read maybe one book a year, and someone from Texas becomes president. Perhaps this is life's way of keeping things in order.
Where would we be if everyone tried to climb Everest? In a queue waiting to get to the top, that's where. And of course the value of an ascent would be totally eroded. They'd probably end up building a Starbucks at the summit. And who wants to be president anyway? It all looks like a lot of hard work.
But maybe this is just me looking for excuses. The fact remains -- I really ought to do something. It's usually at this point that the idea of Writing That Novel You've Always Talked About rears its ugly head.
When I tell people that I have nothing to do, they invariably tell me that I should really make a start on That Novel You've Always Talked About (As in: "Hey, this is perfect. Now you can finally write That Novel You've Always Talked About.")
When I can be bothered even responding, it's usually something along the lines of "The characters are still coming into focus", "The plot line is still gestating", or "I'm having a bit of trouble with the ending." It's all lies of course.
Trouble with the ending? I don't even know how it starts yet. And as for characters, well, the truth is I don't have any. The real truth is I don't have any ideas at all. What do I see when I look inside myself in a desperate search for literary inspiration? Nothing.
It's not that my mind is totally devoid of activity. Quite the contrary. The little gray factory inside my head is constantly whirring and clanging and sparks are flying and whistles are going "Toot-Toot". Its productive capacities are beyond question. Its workforce is diligent and never goes on strike.
The problem is, it never produces anything of any value. It's as if all the other factories, the ones inside other people's heads, are pumping out cars and computers and kitchenware, and useful stuff like that, while mine is busily producing 1997 calendars and Beta video recorders.
You wouldn't believe the things I get myself twisted into knots about. Not, "Oh my God, people are slaughtering each other in Maluku, and I really ought to do something." More along the lines of: "You mean to say that if Arsenal go down to West Ham tonight and Manchester United wins at Old Trafford, which, let's face it, they probably will, then United will go to the top of the table, with only two rounds left in the season, which means they'll clinch the title for the fourth year running, which, you know, can't be good for the overall health of the game now can it?"
Look, that's it. I'm resolved. I'm going to get off the sofa and do something with my life. Right now, right this very minute, nay, this very second. But hang on, it's 7:30 p.m., it's a Tuesday. Which means that really quite watchable Korean quiz show is about to start, and then of course "Dogs with jobs" is on at 8 p.m., and I really couldn't afford to miss that ...
Well, tomorrow is another day.
-- Tim Paterson