Unless mine eyes deceive me, it has been almost three months since the last contribution to this bloggery manifestation of ennui. This is not because I have been going gently into that languid light of laziness, oh no! There was a visit from Paris, there was Christmas, there was a visit to Paris, I have done a couple of translations, and, finally, I applied for a PhD, which does take a bit of time. Another reason for my neglect of this reticular cultivation of the ego via its eternal written affirmation is that I got a bit bored with my attempts at rendering certain theoretical problems in bloggish. Bloggery is fit for the more or less cultivated or casual considerations of the works of mice and men over digital drinks and dinner, but not for laborious elaborations on the subtle workings of all things theory.
We therefore turn to the unbearable lightness of being sick. I am in such a state of illness right now, which, of course, is the reason for my choice of subject matter. It is not that I am really seriously sick, it is more that I am not at all well… Why, oh why must it be this way? A question which the afflicted tend to ask the room that contains them, most of them without expecting an answer. I, however, am a man of science! If God has chosen to punish me, I want him down here to tell me why, God dammit! But, since God is a very domestic animal with no great love of communication, I will have to invent my own unholy explanation. This, my invention, has three factors: The seed, the fun and the exercise.
The seed is the first introduction of illness, the advent of ailment. This is quite common in these wintery times. A slight cold invades the rundown temple of your body, liquid starts magically appearing in your nose, and your lungs get the odd urge to leave your chest by a sudden leap of inspired expiration. This does not yet constitute illness! This is nothing but inconvenience. The problem arises if, like me, you are a bit of an idiot. During the fun-packed weekend I had a lot to drink and not enough to sleep. Monday was blue and very tired, and this is where the idiocy kicks in: I thought I’d defeat fatigue by happily trotting around the nearby park. I even went so far as doing push ups. Tuesday I tried ignoring a tired body by working and drinking coffee, and Wednesday the bottom fell out of me (a nod is as good as a wink to a blind bat…).
Now, I am just inoperative. According to some philosophers this is good news. Terms like désœuvrement, inoperosità and otium all designate the relation between the inoperative and potentiality. I just don’t feel the potential gushing from my energy-deprived body. But, for now at least, I will trust potentiality and patiently await the coming of new acts, a time when the lightness of being becomes quite bearable again.
To your very good health!
