Of course there's something fussily indulgent about placing each post in a category. Nothing worse! It's pure bad faith. There's something of the collector about me – it's revolting. A collector of my own 'work' – what laughter! Work, as if I'd know the meaning of that word!
What day is it? I look at the clock like a sleeper rolling over. It's the afternoon, the afternoon. The day doesn't matter. It's any day, it's everyday. But haven't you said that before? You've said nothing else! Not a thing! And all your categories laid out, your archives! Imagine that, having archives! Who could presume to have archives but you!
But there they are, the archives, the categories, a way of pretending to yourself you've achieved something. But what have you achieved, what really? Swimming in place – is that's what it's called? A holding pattern – that's it, isn't it?
As though it were enough to mark the day by writing. A prisoner marking the wall with a line, and then another – and then, after a few, a scratched line across the others. Except you'll never get there, will you? It's the same line, the same attempt at a line every time. The same attempt to make your mark in the day, when the day is in fact the very impossibility of making such marks, a black surface and nothing else.
Back to your admin, then! Back to it! You love it! You're so good at admin! It keeps you from doing anything, from writing anything! It's a perfect excuse: I've too much admin, when in fact you're relieved that admin exists. For what else would you do in these perfect, open days, the one falling through the other? How else would you pass this expanse of time?
Lars Iyer's Blog 