I don't know how to rest and I fear I'll never learn. The promise of a long weekend—which at home we've transformed into an aqueduct—accelerated our list of good intentions. We would leave Barcelona for almost seven days, a vacation figure unknown to the costella and myself (prior clarification: I suffer the misfortune of being self-employed, which means working 80% of the time, whether you're in Barcelona, Palamós, or Saturn). But working touched by the breeze of the Costa Brava, with the possibility of interspersing a nap between articles, podcast scripts, readings, and etc., is another thing entirely. On the other hand—no fotem, Berni—you have plenty of work, you earn a living writing and chatting in Catalan (just enough to fill the soup pot, by the way) and complaining is a drag from what the bore Macron has called "the era of abundance." The working people of Africa don't cry so much because they have other more pressing needs and blah blah blah. Lie in the sun and shut your mouth.
The first promise was to get rid of the mobile phone. At home, we are also well-read; we know Jonathan Crary's work 24/7, according to which the luminous omnipresence of screens in our lives (that is, the absence of darkness) entails a torture that has progressively annihilated our ability to sleep, rest, and think properly. Well, we'll throw the phone in the pool. Your aunt on a scooter… but there is hope. Weekly consumption, says Mr. iPhone, is 3 hours and 41 minutes, 28% less than the previous one. It's something, but the relationship with the keyboard is still that of an addict. Few minutes pass without a new dose, be it a Gmail notification with the New Yorker Newsletter (mental note: I've devoured about twenty long articles from the magazine but still have ten to read) or a WhatsApp from the hundred groups that survive on my phone.
I had also sworn to abandon Twitter for the entire week. But I have to post an article there every day and the text must have some resonance because, otherwise, my respective editors will tell me that I can now dedicate myself to writing about Kierkegaard... on my own and unpaid. Fucking first world problems. Well, I'll post them online but I promise not to comment on any replies or pay attention to the RTs they provoke. Stubbornness has won, but it turns out that the providence of the tribe's cultural beefs has caused an article by my dear Anna Punsoda about men's emotional gridlock to be one of the year's hits. And you tell me who the hell spends an hour looking at the Mediterranean horizon when they don't know the latest insult Enric Vila has given to our liberated females. As for technological dependence, an abysmal defeat. We will have to look for alternatives during our free time.
Weekly consumption, says Mr. iPhone, is 3 hours and 41 minutes, 28% less than the previous one. It's something, but the relationship with the keyboard is still that of an addict.We will go for a walk, of course! Oranges from China. Because at home, with the fireplace burning brightly, one is very well. We are post-pandemic beings, let's admit it once and for all, and that implies assuming permanent agoraphobia.The landscape that surrounds us is beautiful, of course, but progenitor just bought a new channel pack on TV and I prefer to spend the night compulsively watching boxing matches than wandering around Tamariu. We have no shame.We've been in Empordà for days, I had sworn to myself to sleep like a marmot and I keep waking up at 7 in the morning.How beautiful it is to see the sun rise from the sea while smoking a little cigar! And not at all, queen. Finally, on the seventh day, we resurrected and I dressed aspixapíto go towards the beach. After a kilometer on foot, I start to feel dizzy, chest tightness, and agonizing pain. Come on, man, it's nothing. One step, two steps. Alehop! You make your way by walking.
We had to leave yesterday because I had TV. Rebelling against the obligation, we decided to stay. Ten days of vacation in total! Well, it's all relative. I've received four more emails from the New Yorker and the pending articles are back to about twenty (it has very interesting things, like the tiktokization of the world, the recalcitrant Trumpism of the Republican Party, and reviews of Neil Young's latest album: how can I leave my Manhattan methadone unread?). When I finish them, if I do, the December Spotify list will still be pending; two operas, five new symphonic albums, and a dozen chamber, lied, and such albums. Besides, I'm only subscribed to 30 or 40 podcasts from all over the world. You tell me if this can be called being stressed out by life! Well, I'd say I am, and I'm not the only one. I think we'd be saintly not to use English to disguise it. No burnout or anything; we are tired, fatigued, and out of breath.
There's still a weekend of vacation left and I know for a fact that I won't be able to rest: there are still three articles to write, two recordings of Illa de Maians to prepare, almost a thousand pages to read... But I'm privileged, no fotem. At least I've been able to save La Puñalada by talking about my non-rest. Here we make the most of everything, like the pig! Only two days of leisure left and we can return to the normality of Barcelona stress: in short, the city makes us feel much less guilty for not stopping. We all do our best to hide that we are exhausted, and the body performs wonders to avoid reminding us every minute that, if we continue like this, we will all end up crazy. End of the article. I share it on social media, naturally.