the quiet art of breath-taking

Car horns honk. Dogs bark at hissing cats. An ambulance is going somewhere in the distance. Downtown streets ebb and flow with industry. The radio of everyday life churns out lo-fi conversation. There is an astonishing lack of silence. My ears twitch with every sound. A tortoise and a hare race inside me.

On any given day, I am overcome by my inability to stand still. I am afflicted with the scourge of productivitis, a condition most city-dwellers are prone to. The symptoms are numerous and as common as dirt. Anxiety, depression, the punishing ass-kicking we like to think of as "self-motivation." The constant need to be producing something of value, whether it be a thought, a piece of art, a successful relationship, an eye-catching outfit. I don't know how I got it, they say you can't get it from sitting on public toilet seats, and I wash my hands all the time. And there isn't any cure, except for that children's strength, banana-flavoured relaxation which is lacking in adult effectiveness. It's currently unavailable to the general public, due to sky-high production costs.

I'm glad my condition has a name, even if it's only me who's given it one. It makes it easier to tell myself it's something I've contracted, not something I inherently am. It frightens me that I don't know how to relax anymore. I used to be so good at it. I could just sit in my room and listen to music and stare out the window, and everything was simple and sweet. I often try to re-enact that sweet simplicity, but the failure almost hurts. Like it or not, I am the enemy and hindrance to my free time, imposing structure to my sloth.

When did loafing become so loathesome?

It's a vicious cycle. We go to school in the hopes that knowledge will cure us of a mediocre existence. We work to afford our schooling, our apartments, our food, our phone bills and credit cards, work to afford the vices that will allow us to forget the often mind-numbing work we engage in to afford all this living and learning. All around me, people are going somewhere, in infinate streams, attached to cell phones or discmans' or leashes with dogs on the ends of them. I feel rushed, rushed to keep up with my grown up friends who have real jobs or go to real schools or live with real partners, not the pretend kinds I fill my imaginary life with. I've convinced myself that if I move swiftly and stay busy enough, I'll rocket myself forward into my future life and self, which I've convinced myself will be infinately better than my present one.

This city goes too fast for me sometimes. It reminds me of being a little kid, being afraid to get on the escalator, watching the steps go up and up and waiting for the right step to jump on. Some people spend their whole lives waiting for the right time, the right person, the right step. It's not their fault. It's not that they're afraid of taking a risk, it's that they're afraid of making the wrong choice. Because mistakes, while greatly educational, initially set you back, and who has time to go backwards these days? The concept of a smoothly paved progressive society is fraught with man-made potholes. If you aren't functioning in perpetual(and forward) motion, you are falling behind, falling away from the sense of purpose that awaits you. If you do stand still and unproductive, the world will just go by without you, and you'll fall off the edge into obscurity.

Peace and quiet is one thing we can't make sexy. It's new age and corny. It's too stale, it's too granola, it's for hacks who can't take the pressure. You find it in the self-help section of the bookstore, right between Yanni and yoga. It's tea instead of wine. Knitting instead of rock-climbing. Matlock instead of Kill Bill. It scares me because I feel like I'm not supposed to want it till I'm old, till I'm done chasing the meaning of my life. Like everyone in this with me, I'm supposed to sign up for lack of sleep and constant mental activity. I'm supposed to be over-stimulated at underwhelming social gatherings. But I think it gets a raw deal, inner calm. It's not surrender or the onset of becoming soured milk, no longer relevant to society. Nor is it a constant or monochromatic state. It's just a way to redefine what is critical and what can wait. And most of it can wait. But I know that even as I write this, it's not realistic of plausible. You can't ask your boss and co-workers, your lovers and friends, or even yourself, to quiet down to the pace of growing grass.

I daydream about pressing the slow motion button on time and the tempo of city life, going to a park and just listening to the creaking chains of the swingsets as kids pump their short legs with the belief that if they try hard enough, they can touch the treetops with their feet. I don't like the smell of roses, but I will stop in the street to smell the freshness in the air after a rainfall, or the wafts of chocolate from the Cadbury's factory on College West. I'll resist the take-out coffee, much as I love its sophistication, I'd prefer to sit in Cafe Brasilliano with my over-caffeination and a friend. I won't wear a watch, I'm sorry, I'll probably be about ten minutes late, always. I'll apologize genuinely and try harder next time, but I still won't wear a watch. I'll never see the value in contributing to the huffings and puffings of exasperation on a delayed subway car. We'll get there when we get there, we can't breathe our way there faster, or bend laws of physics with our impatience. I'm done with this cold, mad rush. I'm not going to race the hare anymore.

I think I'd like to take the tortoise out for a beer or two instead.