Gonzo nothing II: the secret life of twigs

If you read my last post, you know I was on a mission to do nothing last week and just stare at a twig.

Instead of staring at twigs all weekend, I ran over them. Quickly.

Until Sunday, when I arrived first at the coffee shop in Lyons Jeremy and I had agreed to meet at mid-ride. I ordered drinks for both of us and sat and stared out into the cliffs around Lyons and attempted to rub the helmet marks off my forehead.

So I didn’t stare at a twig, per se, but I got Susan’s point about staring at twigs. I realized that in my week of nothing, I didn’t do much twig-staring.

Instead of looking at twigs right now, I should be looking for a job. That’s the problem with this whole business of looking at twigs. There’s no time for looking at twigs, because looking at a twig is not productive.

When I told my mom I was having a week of nothing, she said:

“Okay, but don’t get too used to it.”

Mom travels at least one million miles per minute, and she usually does so on her cell phone. I suspect the only way to get her to stare at a twig is to stick it in her eye. Even this would only command her attention momentarily, though. She simply does not have time to stare at a twig, even if it is the only thing in her field of vision.
When I told my dad about the week of nothing, his reply was:

“Well, yeah, I can see where you’d need to do that.”

Dad could stare at twigs. He’s a night owl, and it’s possible that this is what he does in the middle of the night.

I fall somewhere between the two extremes. Maybe this is good — a middle way.

Or maybe I’m simply waffling, at odds with both. I can’t say my week of nothing was a success, because I didn’t achieve true “nothing” until the end of the week. However, maybe it made me realize the dualistic view involved in trying to do nothing versus something. Gonzo nothing indeed.

Next: how to do nothing and something at the same time.

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