It’s when reality begins to leak out of your world, when uselessness seems the natural feature of life while meaning strikes as mere artifice nothing and nobody can make you care for, that you’re no longer capable to ignore boredom.
You’re no longer capable to ignore the blatant ignorance of your senses, the unresponsive detachment which colours the lenses you see through, the unshakable indifference laying heavy and opaque over the scope of perception.
Especially once you notice, at a count broached to kill time, how little feeling was left where not long ago streams of sensations used to crisscross over the simplest incentive.
So what do you do?
Inactivity – lingering, discontent- spiceless; in the midst of life there’s one sphere of emptiness which embraces you.
Blah- blah- blah.
That’s what it all resumes to in your head.
Blah- blah- blah.
And this is the state I’ve been drowning in, more or less abruptly to the bottom, for months wasted on being either absurdly whiny about it or pointlessly mocking.
Until -of course I have an ‘until’, a denouement- I watched ‘La Grande Bellezza” with a friend whose acute ennui greatly resembled mine and somehow,by the time the last scene was over, we, usually jaded, quite unimpressionable, were both in tears.
Which for a while drew us away from boredom almost entirely.
Not to a ‘happy ending’, nor to a permanent annihilation of the weariness we were sure to meet again.
But, by the trick of art, to an interval of feeling, of emotion, when ‘boredom’, like the giraffe in the film, like any object magicians use to entertain their audiences, simply disappeared.
We just listened to this monologue of the main character, wept and for a while became so absorbed into its beauty, into the richness of its meaning, that, despite knowing everything was plain illusion, we lived it.
“This is how it always ends. With death. But first there was life, hidden beneath the blah, blah, blah… It’s all settled beneath the chitter chatter and the noise, silence and sentiment, emotion and fear. The haggard, inconstant flashes of beauty. And then the wretched squalor and miserable humanity. All buried under the cover of the embarrassment of being in the world -blah, blah, blah… Beyond that there is what lies beyond. And I don’t deal with what lies beyond. After all… it’s just a trick. Yes, it’s just a trick.“
Could you say why?
Patricia Beykrat – the Roving Aesthete