I dawdled around in the morning for a long time, wondering what to do, almost as if there was something painful I had to do, but couldn’t. Other than long emails to my friends I hadn’t written in a while. But emails counted, in a sense. At least one person read them, not including me. Sometimes I reread my sent emails, to remind myself that I’d written.
It occurred to me suddenly, as in a revelation, that I was bored. I was going to write this down, but then I saw that I’d already written that I was bored, a few weeks ago.
I decided to pose myself a series of questions.
Q: am I masochist?
Q: do I know how to enjoy myself?
A: from time to time
Q: do I perpetuate my own suffering?
Q: do I have any friends?
Q: do I actually want friends?
Q: how much do I like people?
A: not sure
Q: what about love (corporeal/spiritual?)?
Q: is my life as exciting as it should be?
Q: What is a full, rich life?
Q: am I passionate?
Q: do I get enough work done?
Q: am I growing as a person and as a writer?
A: time passes
Last weekend, three of the British assistants tried to get me to come out to the house they rented in the countryside. There were rumors that the three of them regretted living there, away from town and away from the rest of us. In addition, two of them had turned against the other one, Catherine, an admittedly insufferable person whom I couldn’t suffer, as the word implies. I saw it coming when I first met her. She’d gone on about her boyfriend and then complained about having to speak French with Tania, because Tania couldn’t speak English. But I wasn’t going to say anything to warn the other two, it would have been overstepping my bounds. They were young, after all. In truth I took a certain satisfaction in hearing about the failure of this domestic arrangement. I declined their invitation for the weekend, but in retrospect I should have. It might have been entertaining. At least I would have had something to write about.