Boredom
Commissioned for the Boredom Conference at the University of Western Ontario
March 2015
“Hear this or not, as you will. Learn it now, or later -- the world has time. Routine, repetition, tedium, monotony, ephemeracy, inconsequence, abstraction, disorder, boredom, angst, ennui -- these are the true hero’s enemies, and make no mistake, they are fearsome indeed. For they are real.”
-David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
It’s my shoes that make me an intern. They always make a stupid fucking intern noise when I walk. Something between a squeak and a click. It doesn’t matter what shoes I wear. It’s always the right one. I confront the relative insignificance of my existence through such work.
Boredom is the death of the mind before the body. A death that goes unnoticed because you remain useful to everyone but yourself. It’s pressing up against the same stuff for so long you can’t feel it anymore. You become numb to a world that’s constantly tearing into your senses. Day in and day out, the scar tissue gets thicker, the callouses get harder. You get dull and never suspect a thing. You become a zombie.
Inventory is inventory no matter what you’re inventorying. There are many things. The things are usually dusty. You count them. You record your count. Time becomes a mute, androgynous thing.
Transgression comes here to die. But isn’t given the courtesy. Instead it gets perverted – doubly transgressed into a dry, shriveled, and barren thing that’s neither threatening nor empowering. Father has returned and he doesn’t mind the mess. He’s not shocked by the stains of hedonism or the disdain for productivism. He’s not proud to see the antics of his younger self. He does not care. Pure and total apathy. Boredom is not the death of transgression. It’s something worse – castration, the sterilization of the soul.
It isn’t really necessary that my count be perfect. It’s not imperative. But with so many different sizes, arrangements, and numbers it’s easiest just to be precise. Exactitude emerges from nihilism. Specificity by default.
Boredom is not slogging. It’s not slavery. There’s no unrest, no resistance. It might look good, clean, protestant, and pleasant, but it isn’t. It’s not a void, stillness, or silence. It’s not a place the mind can wander. There is no room for thought here. Not in real boredom. Your mind is occupied, not by hostile, brute forces, but by gentler, subtler calculations. Things could be worse.
Everything on the shelves has a place. A location. Coordinates. It’s own spot to exist in. But only for a while. Just as it has come, it will go: -1.
Boredom is the opposite of the enacted, of the embodied, of the lived and of life. It’s a mental state of removal wherein you’re too busy to notice and too lethargic to do anything about it even if you did. Boredom is cultural hegemony. It’s believing what your parents believe. It’s a state of states. This is the tool of our masters.
Things will get better after lunch.
Boredom is inert, inactive, impotent. But it’s also acceptance. A melding of the self and environment. A more holistic state. A monotony of nothing more. It teeters on zen. Until you recognize it. Until you give it its name. Until it means something. Until it is not what surrounds it. Until things don’t get better after lunch.
The lights are connected to a motion sensor. I work from the same desk for so long they turn off. Usually twice a day.
Boredom is what infinity would be like. A state of perpetuity where your mother’s bosom is none other than the one you so fervently enjoyed on Pornhub before you got back to writing your conference paper. If the pornographic is to be mundane, it’s important we make the mundane pornographic. I’d rather be shocked, pricked, prodded, and poked by everything than nothing.
There are no surprises here. It’s not bad if I get situated ergonomically. I have absolutely no idea why I’m not allowed to drink while I do this. Here’s to boredom. Here’s to drinking a glass of water at room temperature when you’re not thirsty. Cheers.
Commissioned for the Boredom Conference at the University of Western Ontario
March 2015
“Hear this or not, as you will. Learn it now, or later -- the world has time. Routine, repetition, tedium, monotony, ephemeracy, inconsequence, abstraction, disorder, boredom, angst, ennui -- these are the true hero’s enemies, and make no mistake, they are fearsome indeed. For they are real.”
-David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
It’s my shoes that make me an intern. They always make a stupid fucking intern noise when I walk. Something between a squeak and a click. It doesn’t matter what shoes I wear. It’s always the right one. I confront the relative insignificance of my existence through such work.
Boredom is the death of the mind before the body. A death that goes unnoticed because you remain useful to everyone but yourself. It’s pressing up against the same stuff for so long you can’t feel it anymore. You become numb to a world that’s constantly tearing into your senses. Day in and day out, the scar tissue gets thicker, the callouses get harder. You get dull and never suspect a thing. You become a zombie.
Inventory is inventory no matter what you’re inventorying. There are many things. The things are usually dusty. You count them. You record your count. Time becomes a mute, androgynous thing.
Transgression comes here to die. But isn’t given the courtesy. Instead it gets perverted – doubly transgressed into a dry, shriveled, and barren thing that’s neither threatening nor empowering. Father has returned and he doesn’t mind the mess. He’s not shocked by the stains of hedonism or the disdain for productivism. He’s not proud to see the antics of his younger self. He does not care. Pure and total apathy. Boredom is not the death of transgression. It’s something worse – castration, the sterilization of the soul.
It isn’t really necessary that my count be perfect. It’s not imperative. But with so many different sizes, arrangements, and numbers it’s easiest just to be precise. Exactitude emerges from nihilism. Specificity by default.
Boredom is not slogging. It’s not slavery. There’s no unrest, no resistance. It might look good, clean, protestant, and pleasant, but it isn’t. It’s not a void, stillness, or silence. It’s not a place the mind can wander. There is no room for thought here. Not in real boredom. Your mind is occupied, not by hostile, brute forces, but by gentler, subtler calculations. Things could be worse.
Everything on the shelves has a place. A location. Coordinates. It’s own spot to exist in. But only for a while. Just as it has come, it will go: -1.
Boredom is the opposite of the enacted, of the embodied, of the lived and of life. It’s a mental state of removal wherein you’re too busy to notice and too lethargic to do anything about it even if you did. Boredom is cultural hegemony. It’s believing what your parents believe. It’s a state of states. This is the tool of our masters.
Things will get better after lunch.
Boredom is inert, inactive, impotent. But it’s also acceptance. A melding of the self and environment. A more holistic state. A monotony of nothing more. It teeters on zen. Until you recognize it. Until you give it its name. Until it means something. Until it is not what surrounds it. Until things don’t get better after lunch.
The lights are connected to a motion sensor. I work from the same desk for so long they turn off. Usually twice a day.
Boredom is what infinity would be like. A state of perpetuity where your mother’s bosom is none other than the one you so fervently enjoyed on Pornhub before you got back to writing your conference paper. If the pornographic is to be mundane, it’s important we make the mundane pornographic. I’d rather be shocked, pricked, prodded, and poked by everything than nothing.
There are no surprises here. It’s not bad if I get situated ergonomically. I have absolutely no idea why I’m not allowed to drink while I do this. Here’s to boredom. Here’s to drinking a glass of water at room temperature when you’re not thirsty. Cheers.