It’s Saturday and I have spent the morning in bed, reading books. The great curse of the day-job is that I don’t get to do this often enough. My narratives get consumed through moving images on screens these days, rather than on the page, ’cause television lets me multitask.
Or, at least, I don’t feel guilty when I cheat on television narratives by doing other things while they’re on.
These are dangerous kinds of Saturday’s to set out and write a blog post. The results are always sprawling and full of weird little tangents and, ultimately, break all kinds of rules about having a point and making it worth the readers time.
And frequently, at this point, I discover that I don’t really care. It’s Saturday. It’s cold and quiet and my belly is full of porridge. My head is full of other people’s words, which in turn fills the heart and nourishes the soul.
I want to document that, to trap the moments and keep them safe, because they become so increasingly rare that I forget how important they are.
I don’t often have days off that are actually days off anymore. I’m usually writing, or putting together a course, or putting off either of the two activities I’m meant to be doing with some hardcore procrastination that’s almost as much work doing things would have been.
Today isn’t a day off, but the morning is all mine. I feel a powerful need to squander it on important frivolity.