Nobody Reads This Page – “Boredom”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

During sunny days, year-round and right throughout the winter months, I sit outside on my front porch to catch a first-person view of the sky, and a breath of fresh air. It is a habit developed as the living space inside my longbox has become needfully shrunken by an accumulation of things. A habit intensified by remaining at the same address for long periods of time. As a child, I was used to my family relocating on an irregular basis. Sometimes after a year, or three, or five, depending on my father’s ability to earn an income from preaching the gospel of Christ. I never had much warning when these moves transpired, but eventually learned to identify certain facial expressions and delays in offering conversational details, at the dinner table. While the process of finding a new pulpit in which to stand was sometimes smooth and agreeable, on other occasions, it represented a herky-jerky ride more akin to visiting an amusement park. False starts, unexpected detours, and last-minute negotiations could wreck the timeline.

 

In my personal life, I continued this trend. Living at different spots in an area depending on my ability to pay rent or mortgage costs, and the needs of those with whom I resided. But after a lifetime of wandering, and surrendering possessions which were scattered in my wake, I landed in a rural cluster of manufactured homes, south of Lake Erie. The result of bad personal decisions and relationship chaos.

 

Nearly 24 years have now passed since that auspicious event.

 

Therefore, I have accumulated lots of records, books, furnishings, musical instruments, and nonsensical bric-a-brac. Because, as someone without a hometown or any geographical point to serve as an anchor for my existence, I cling to collectible ‘junk’ as a mechanism to feel rooted. What I have is, in a certain sense, who I am as an individual. Yet this growing mass has now expanded to the point that whole rooms are unavailable for any other use than to serve as a storage space.

 

Some may appear to be similar in their affinity for keeping stuff around the household, and thereby inherit the label of ‘hoarder’ as a judgmental term. But for myself, this is not the case. Boxes and shelves in my own skinny shack are filled with research materials, and antique trinkets of a curious nature. Not simply rubbish gathered for some undefined purpose. So, while it is likely that I would enjoy getting outdoors for recreational purposes anyway, my tilt toward embracing the local environment is also driven by a quiet mood of claustrophobia.

 

Being on the wooden bench atop my access ramp does create a bit of social exposure, however. I am occasionally targeted by neighbors who are walking or jogging, or riding noisy, claptrap vehicles up and down our crooked streets. When this happens, I attempt to be polite and courteous. Though after a few minutes of interaction, it may become apparent that my interest in small talk and gossip is limited. I do my best to be patient.

 

On a recent afternoon, my presence in the three-sided cubicle was noted by someone next door. A reclusive fellow, who seemed to be pacing along the edge of my yard while tapping at the screen of his cellular device. He approached without an invitation or greeting, to say that an Uber driver was on the way to whisk him somewhere, regarding a health issue. A minor test which was not concerning, but still presented a chore that had interrupted his day of doing nothing.

 

“I get so bored in there! Watching TV, playing video games, smoking cigarettes or whatever else there is on hand, haw haw haw! Staring at the same four walls, you know? Counting cracks in the ceiling. Making bathroom trips, and standing at my refrigerator to find a snack. Listening to my daughter’s canine, ankle-biter yip and yap. Or hearing pickup trucks roll by with bald tires and no mufflers. It makes me feel tired! What a life! What a frigging life!”

 

As a wordsmith, perpetually involved in writing, study, or research, I had no literal comprehension of what he described. Boredom? Not in my corner. There always seemed to be ideas floating in the ether. Even in the midst of a dark night, when restlessness and a glowing moon through the front window might inspire projects for later in the morning. I never had that sensation very often. Even occasionally writing poems or jotting down ideas on old envelopes, restaurant napkins, or wrapping paper.

 

His comment about suffering through empty hours of naught lingered, though. Eventually, it evoked memories of a UK group known for a raw sound and sharp wit. Seminal Punk heroes, the Buzzcocks. And their debut release, known simply as ‘Spiral Scratch.’

 

“Yeah, well, I say what I mean

I say what comes to my mind

Because I never get around to things

I live a straight, straight line

You know me, I’m acting dumb

You know the scene, very humdrum

Boredom, boredom

Boredom...”

 

My counterpart across the side yard had a colorful back-story, full of various careers, truncated educational experiences, and a general gift for handling mechanical systems and minor construction tasks. He remined me somewhat of my younger brother, who had also been an automobile wizard, professional trucker, and risk-taker.

 

I pondered writing about the subject of boredom from the perspective of my home-office desk. Yet another classic composition from the 1970s emerged as I was considering this new project. One penned by Mick Jones and Joe Strummer, of the Clash.

 

“All across the town, all across the night

Everybody’s drivin’ with full headlights

Black or white you turn it on, you face the new religion

Everybody’s sittin’ ‘round watching television

London’s burning (With boredom now)

London’s burning (Dial 99999)

London’s burning (With boredom now)

London’s burning (Dial 99999).”

 

My own routine generally involves work at the desk, after coffee and breakfast. Then, chilled brew while relaxing on the front stoop. So, I don’t have to combat the nasty, gnawing sensation of boredom in my belly. A fact that gives me purpose. And perhaps, a bit of hope while getting through the day.

 

That is a blessing I celebrate, by staying busy.