Thursday, 07 March 2002 | Boredom

Sometimes it happens when I'm behind the wheel, stuck in a channel of stagnant metal, my tapes exhausted and my radio reception flickering. And I can rely on it occurring when I'm in a stiff meeting, tearing at my cuticles and checking the clock. Reading an operation manual; watching certain bands repeat cycles of rhythm as they stare at the floor; being locked in a conversation that I've had a hundred times before; sitting at a red light; waiting.

I still get bored, though it's different than when I was younger. Rather than stemming from long afternoons with little amusement, my boredom is a result of situations I have little control over, moments that I'm unable to escape or avoid.

I can barely remember what it feels like to have a stretch of time and not have a clue what to do with it. If I had a friend over, we would usually find somewhere to channel our energy, though it took some brainstorming. We would draw up lists and make up games, exhausting our imaginations to the point of coming up with ridiculous solutions. (Sarah and I revised hide-and-seek by putting duffel bags on our heads and zipping them up to our necks; Ashley and I would make original sour-tasting desserts using all of the extract in my parents' spice cabinet; with Natasha, I sneaked out of the house and put laundry detergent in the town fountain.) I was less successful when I was alone.

Even in college, I didn't abuse idle time by stuffing it full of errands and social engagements; my time was liquid and uncommitted. I would burn hours in the darkroom with Charlie; Jay and I would drive around aimlessly playing music fascist. Listen to this. You're going to love this. Now it's my turn. Let me put my tape in. Isn't that awesome? Okay, I'm just going to fast forward past this part. The next song is even better. I would lie back on brick walls looking up at the sky, sprawl on the floor in front of my stereo an manufacture mixed tapes, and sit Indian-style in booths of late-night diners drinking coffee and telling stories. I wasn't bored—I was preventing it. But the threat of boredom was there.

I miss being relaxed and lazy and not knowing what time it is.