Today, what happened today? No books – or at least, no non-academic ones. No writing – or at least, no non-academic writing. The office, just as yesterday. A deadline – actually, one already passed. I’m too late, I found out. Too late, but I finished anyway. Cold February. I should remember there’s always a cold snap around this time. Cold, and the city seems to reduce itself to itself. What does it become? Only what it is, but it is more obvious now.
The same supermarket for the same salad. That was my lunch. A sandwich – the same sandwich. R.M. texts. She’s in Geneva, on a coach to the mountains. And what am I supposed to be doing? The deadline, oh yes, but I’ve missed the deadline. Tomorrow I’ll go begging to ask them to consider me. I was ill, I could tell them. The letter was lost, I could say. But why didn’t I finish? Because the days are full and the evenings are full – I’m busy. One day, another – busy. Where did the day go, I ask myself, because it is already evening? What happened to the day?
Meanwhile, W. is haranguing me by e-mail. Why aren’t you writing any philosophy? But I am, I tell him. Does he believe me? I’m working on a new book, in a completely new area. I’ve been seized by enthusiasm, drafted a first chapter, and thinking of a second. When will it complete itself? The whole book could be done by the end of the summer. But is that what I want to do with my summer? The deadline – it’s already passed. It’s already too late. The summer will be the time of the too-late, after the deadline, after everything should have been done. In fact, that is my life, it’s what happens after what should have happened. It’s extra-time, before the penalty shootout. Anything could happen; it could go either way.
No thoughts, though. No thinking. One hour a day – working intensely. One early hour, before the office: work time. I write, drawing on bits and pieces I’d begun last year. It’s pleasant enough; ideas coalesce. But there’s no thinking, not really. It’s automatic. I’m back doing what I do. It’s different this time, that’s true enough – a different topic, at least on the surface. But it’s an extension of the same thoughts. I am of my time, I tell myself. I am absolutely of my time, there’s nothing surprising about me. Of my time – a symptom – but of what? Of what disease?
As though I’d been hollowed out. Nothing inside. That’s the disease, and it afflicts everyone. We’re all dead, I tell myself, and especially today, when it’s so cold. What’s the point? What’s the point of all of this? Why isn’t it warm, that at least? Why isn’t the salad nice, today of all days? Why can’t the sandwich be nice and not half-stale? Why don’t I take the dead plant out to the bin? Took a year to die, that plant, leaf by leaf, and yesterday I knocked the last leaf off. There’s only a green tip atop the bole (is that the word – bole?) . A green shoot. Too late, though. The deadline has come and gone.
Today. What happened today? Nothing happened. The same happened – the same bowl of salad, the same sachet of dressing I cut with dirty scissors. Tuna and potatoes at the bottom of the bowl. With my plastic spoon I scoop up the tuna and potatoes. It’s a salad Nicoise. And later, a tuna sandwich. And today – a treat – fizzy water. In the cold office, with the fan heater on. In the office, piles of newspapers. Surf the net, wait for the caffeine to hit. It’s not hitting, though. Half a cup of tea that did not hit. Half a can of Irn-Bru that did not hit. When will it hit? Because the hours are passing, and I’m already late. Because I’m already too late. The deadline has passed.
Today. What was it that was to happen today? What was to have occurred? Dawn, 6.30: the world had turned from darkness into light. Dawn, and sunrise at 7.00 – light had come, spreading everywhere. Grey light! I leave for the office through the grey light. It’s all downhill. I take the bike into the office. It smells of oil. It’s early – before 8.00, and the shops are still closed. Nothing for it. Yes, that was the morning. And lunchtime? And the afternoon? The earth was turning in the light, but no one can see the sun. There is no sun. The sun has been scratched out. Instead, grey light, the whole day: grey. And cold, with cold wind, a little rain.
Out of the office to the streets. I was ill for 10 days, but now I’m better. Ill and too tired to make it to the bottom of the shopping street, but now it’s an easy trip. Concrete. The same shops. Go and get a salad, and a sandwich for later, because it will be closed later. Get a paper, even though you dislike papers. There’ll be empty hours to fill, you can count on that. Empty time, you know that. Today – how will you get through it? It’s easy enough. You are carried through it, after all. Borne – that’s what happens with time. It carries you, you don’t have to do anything. Do nothing then. But you want to know time is passing. You want to read to know time is passing. The papers. The net. You want to gauge and callibrate time. To measure it.
But you’ve already been measured by time. Measured and found wanting. You missed the deadline, didn’t you? You missed it – you were too busy, and it slipped past, didn’t it? You missed it, missed the appointment. The day is extra-time. Before the final reckoning. Before the shootout. The sun sets at 6.00. Sunday in the office. 3 more hours, and I will be done. 3 hours – and I was done. Triumph – I finished! It was all done! Too late, but all done! I came home. Banana beer in the fridge – whose idea was that? Tescos brought it, but why did I order it? A banana beer in my glass – horrible, really. And the TV on silent. And then a drama – you know it’s a drama, because no one speaks as people speak. Full of actors you’ve known for years. A drama, dealing with Big Themes.
So I turn on the computer. I type the words, ‘Today. What happened, today?’ No better words than those. Words to which any words could link themselves. Gregarious words, which seem to call for more words. But they are perfect as they are. Perfect, even as no other words have come, not yet. Suspended – words in which the day, today, seems to infinitise itself. What returns is eternity. What comes back is the whole of time. The same day is turning. But the deadline has passed. The deadline has receded and carried it with me. So who am I that outlived myself? Who am I that lives in the day which has outlived itself?
Lars Iyer's Blog 