I ran this morning with both dogs and could was again distracted by the logistics of keeping them out of traffic and out of my way. All I could think about was dogs. It was a lovely morning, though. Cold. A thin scrim of ice topped the river all the way across. Lots of ducks and geese sitting there on the ice. Cold assed ducks.
As we ran by the tidal pond we heard the ice crack. A big, deep noise. Both dogs stopped and whipped their heads around at the same time. I had to do some fancy dancing to stay on my feet. These dogs have no sense of Personal Space.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about boredom. When I wasn't actively engaged in actual work, that is (ie, overseeing math pages, piano practice, board games, driving around, that sort of thing).
I read in the New Yorker yesterday that David Foster Wallace was working on a novel about boredom when he committed suicide. He had been working on it for years and despaired ever finishing it. The magazine excerpted a chapter for this week's short story. The first paragraph takes up several pages. Too daunting to even attempt to read. Visually quite frightening.
He was trying to embrace boredom. He said that we spend enormous amounts of time and energy evading boredom. We are afraid of being bored. Afraid of being left alone with our own thoughts. His novel is set in an IRS office and centers on the tax workers. A more boring job cannot be imagined.
I thought of this while I played Fast Track with the boys - a homemade math board (bored) game. They love it, but I find that after two or three go rounds its limited charms wear thin. So I embraced boredom. I enjoyed the boys. And I lost. Over and over.