Going nowhere. Doing nothing.
Contributed by Phil Kirby
When the going gets weird, the weird move to Beeston.
“That simple action of putting pen to paper will help you think about what it is you’re really trying to achieve,” recommends a website I happened upon this morning whilst balancing a searingly hot mug of coffee and a plate of drippy buttered crumpets on either arm of my chair, distracting me from my regular devotional attention to Mike Chitty’s latest dispatch from the Leeds Culture Wars. Seems that if I jot my long-term longings down in good old fashioned ink, “on a postcard, in a letter, on the back of a bus ticket” then I’m well on the way to achieving all that I ought to; my success “WILL happen, it’s an inevitability, a probability, not a possibility.”
I’m game for that, I thought, sucking up lashings of lustrous black ink into my favourite Mont Blanc and riffling the desk drawer for some decent cartridge paper. Admittedly I’m no La Rochefoucauld when it comes to compressing my less than precious insights into gem-like, glittering apercus, though I can usually manage to scribble a word or two of tolerable sense, and as the subject was my favourite topic, myself, I reckoned I’d be onto a winner. But when I read further and noticed the contributions from Albert Einstein, Marcus Aurelius, Ayn Rand and Violet Baudelaire (I’m assuming she’s the sister of the French fellow who translated De Quincey and invented symbolist poetry? Hoping she’s the cheerier sibling, as old Charlie was a bit of a mope) I realised that an aspiring literary/philosophical chap like myself would have to take it exceedingly seriously. My entry is rather more than a mite bigger than a bus ticket. In fact it’s more billboard than post card, but there’s positivity throbbing in every past participle and pulsing through the tiniest jot and tittle of punctuation; if I had to condense it any further the thing would be brighter than a thousand suns. Eyeballs would melt and brain cells would spontaneously incinerate. I simply had to share.
7.0 am: Woke up to John Humphreys sticking it to Nick Clegg. Another night tormented with nightmares; all the world’s problems and only one lifetime! When will I ever accept that there is only one of me, a frail, fallible, fissiparous human being . . . this is the desperately depressing down side of being so sensitive! Already in a mood fouler than the turbid air in the General Elliot’s tap room. Must buck my ideas up and pronto. Make an attempt to enumerate my goals for the day, repeat a raft of uplifting maxims from that treasure chest of practical wisdom, The Quote Book, and try to fix my mind on the positive.
7.17: Land of Nod proves too big a destination value . . . ZZZ.
10.03: Jolt awake with a ripping pain in my left cheek. Breeze from open window has dried the dribble to the pillow. Ouch. Maintain steady, single pointed mindful awareness as the pain subsides. Stumble unshaven into the kitchen and fire up the kettle. Salutations to the sun.
10.10: So so behind on emails. Remember mum’s advice, More haste, less speed, which I always took to mean STOP! If you do nowt and act gormless there’s always someone more competent will come along and do the work for you. The technique has stood my dad in good stead all these years. I see no point in questioning the accumulated wisdom of the family. Decide not to feel guilty about ignoring a pile of correspondence. Instead listen to uplifting podcasts, watch life-enhancing videos on YouTube, and plan to spend the evening in spiritually edifying company, intellectually frollicking with the enlightened crowd. Finish coffee. Make more coffee.
10.51: Positively reeling from a surfeit of peppiness. Though it could be the caffeine. Time for elevenses. Crumpets. Maybe a Hobnob. And an aspirin or two.
11.30: Noting the diminishing supply of morning. Tell my self that time is but a delusion and ponder deeply upon the midday. Nothing done as such this morning but feeling good about feeling positive.
11.35: Admitting to a niggling anxiety. Quelled by Donovan; first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is . . . Wise words. Such a pretty tune too. Start on the positive blogs, read positive quotations, inspect positive reviews of positive books, shed a small tear at touching anecdote of a minor triumph over adversity, inwardly smile at all the good there is in the world, beam a big positive beamy face to my neighbours Micky and Vicky, busy slamming doors and shrieking constructively, give thanks and praise.
11.48: Take a breather. All this positivity is making me woozy.
11.55: Remember that I’ve neglected to write a post for my daily blog, How to Spin Friends and Monetise People.
12.07: Paean written, more unpolluted positivity injected straight into the jugular of the universe. Done my bit to restore the Karmic balance.
12.30: Wondering where to go for lunch. Put a copy of Screwing Your Way to Success; Life as a Flat Pack Instruction Manual in my bag. Have a little sit down. Day dream delightfully about all the positive thoughts I’ve yet to think, all the motivational manuals I’ve yet to devour, all the uplifting experiences I’ve yet to encounter. Doze off.
12.55: Phone! Ringing! Lunchtime . . . where are you? Where am I, indeed . . . Dashing to the bathroom for lightning shave, dabbing minor lesions with squidged up toilet paper, then I’m out of the door. Companion immoderately displeased by my modest lateness. Reference to egregious wounds elicits no sympathy. Tears. Some people just can’t be reached by another’s hurt.
2.19: Two pints of Blue Moon and a cashew nut burger take the edge off any unpleasant feelings and I foresee a whole afternoon of unimpeded positivity stretching out before me. No need to scowl concentratedly into edifying tome. Let mind flit about gathering the sheer profusion of woolly wanderings.
2.40: Strikes me that I’ve not kept up with the comments on several uplifting blogs. Feel a tug of moral obligation. Add my two penn’oth of positivity for what it’s worth. I know it’s appreciated, they return the compliment tenfold.
3.23: Remember I haven’t touched base with the international edifying community. Positivity never sleeps! America produces positivity at an almost industrial scale. The sheer scale of motivational output is daunting. I must buckle down and read on for fear of losing my standing in the world of big-spirit and speed-think.
5.01 Crack open big book on character building and self-motivation at last, but before I’ve read half the foreword by a major figure in the world of Uncritical Psychology my tummy grumbles.
5.25: Dusting cake crumbs off keyboard. Just seen a tweet about negative effects of simple carbohydrates on moral fibre. Decide that Victoria sponge is having a deleterious effect on my circadian rhythms. It must be the jam filling that makes me dopey.
7.25: Still glued to page seventy five of Positive Psychology Classic when I’m startled to attention by whistling from the kitchen. Boiled water for pasta. Seem to have been reading Martin Seligman’s list of publications, citations and honorary appointments for over an hour. Positive bloody hero that Seligman.
7.34: In mad rush to waste no time in unedifying ritual of eating I scald mouth with thermonuclear pasta. Not feeling so clever now. But facial disfigurement is a minor price to pay. Something I shall have to overcome. Boing back from adversity. Think brightly. Onwards.
8.15: Decide I need culture. What will bring most positive payoff though? Ballet? Film? Opera? Do I play plebeian and go to the pub? Switch laptop on and scour the blogs for information about hedonic ratings of competing cultural forms.
8.57: Realise it’s possibly too late for a film and Act One of the Opera finished quarter of an hour ago. Congratulate myself on solid decision not to do ballet, however. Ballet has no measurable effect on promoting tangible life goals. May still make the pub though. Tie shoelaces, retrieve wallet, rummage around the flat looking for keys.
9.30: Find keys in wash basket along with library card and a corkscrew. No time to divine the meaning of that unnatural conjunction of objects. Slam the door and rush wildly down the hill in the direction of beer.
9.42: Arrive Midnight Bell and down first pint of morally inspiring Leeds Best. Two more pints and my metrics of uplift and spiritual fulfilment are restored to acceptable levels. Realise if I leave pub now I can call into Tescos for an elevating bottle of Merlot and be home in time to catch book at bedtime on Radio Inspire, the choice of listening for goal driven, self-actualising, achievement driven good people throughout the nation.
11.47: Bed at last. Fall into fitfull half sleep, tormented by anxiety dreams in which I have gnawing thoughts of positive words left unspoken, uplifting literature left unread, inspiring blog posts about achieving one’s dreams left uncommented upon, gratifying comments on visionary blog posts left unreciprocated . . .
Going nowhere. Doing nothing.
Theme created for Posterous by Obox
