Have you ever felt that there are particular days in your life that are set apart from the humdrum drizzle of habits, work and leisure? I thought about this today. Waking up, the dreadful memory of one too many shots of tequila hammering in my entire bodily system, I watched the sunlight and the eerie light outside. I went over to J's place, and S2 joined us for coffee. We sat languidly at a café, quietly talking about daily affairs and practical matters. The hangover was bad, but not overwhelmingly so. We walked around for some time, and then bumped into P, with whom we enjoyed another session of tea and good talk. I walked around for one more hour, attending to some business. When I headed home, I noticed how terribly cold it was. I watched the end of Mystery train, but it wasn't anything to write home about, really. Started to watch another movie, Birdcage Inn. Just as half-lame as the other. Nothing of significance happened today, but it was a good day. Hanging around with people with no particular immediate intentions or plans for the day, no rush. A gentle atmosphere. A day in between everything else.
I am beginning to think this entry is just an expression of how imbued I am in an ideology of work, according to which almost anything one pursues in one's life is a form of work. Aimed at results, being limited to certain conventions of "a normal procedure". The worry about "productivity". Leisure is OK, if it is devoted to edifying activities. Am I advocating the ideal of the oblomovian life? No. I simply wish that dreadful and bored half-activity would not make up such a large portion in my life.
These thoughts are partly inspired by a book I am reading, The Ideology of Work by P.D. Anthony. The book is both a historical description of different ideas about the role of work in our lives and a critical reflection on the idea that work is the central part of human relations.
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