Subtracted life, life subtracted. Life minus life: what did I do this Sunday? What happened yesterday? I would like to have written, but that's not what I did. I would have liked to have written, but I wrote nothing. I wrote nothing - but it was also that all I did was to wait to write something. Nothing happened, twice over: there was no writing and there was nothing done while waiting for writing. What happened? Nothing, twice over. What happened? Nothing, once and again.
I had an espresso. Half an espresso after lunch. And waited for the caffeine to cross the blood brain barrier. And waited for the caffeine hit, and the rash that opens on my hand. Caffeine and then the rash, because it is toxic. Caffeine, drank in order to write, drank in order to work, is also toxic, whence the rash on the heel of my palm.
Espresso - just a half, but that was enough. Eggs benedict and espresso for breakfast, and then work, I said to myself, then writing. Espresso and eggs benedict, and then it can begin. What happened? Nothing - twice over. Nothing redoubled. No writing, and then a whole day in which 'no writing' devoured the day. Life minus life. Subtracted life.
Before the day, nothing, and after the day nothing. And the day nothing, nothing could began. Then there was espresso. Caffeine was to cross the blood-brain barrier. It crossed. What began? Nothing began. The day, which was wearing past three o'clock, was already over. Nothing began. Everything was over. Then there was the caffeine, which made nothing happen more intensely. Nothing happened, but more intensely. Life minus life, but more intensely. Life subtracted itself from life, but more intensely. What happened? Nothing, but more intensely. I surfed the net more intensely. I read idly more intensely. I wandered around town more intensely. I thought about working, more intensely. I did nothing, but more intensely.
I read an article about caffeine in The Observer. It said scientists were divided as to whether its effects was adverse. I read the article more intensely. I read the stupid paper more intensely. I thought about how stupid it was more intensely. Meanwhile, nothing happened. There was no writing, nothing done, and nothing happened while I did not write.
Other people in the world were at D.I.Y superstores. Other people in the world were reading papers in cafes. Other people were on weekend breaks to Antwerp. Other people were gathering ingredients to cook a big meal. Others were walking hand in hand round the shops. Couples were walking hand in hand up and down the river. Others were wandering through the art gallery.
I wasn't working in the office. Nothing was happening in the office. Everything was happened everywhere but the office. The world was turning everywhere but in the office. The afternoon was progressing nicely everywhere but in the office. Everything was happening everywhere except the office. The office was where nothing was happening. I was waiting for something to happen, but nothing was happening.
Nothing was happening while I waited for something to happen. Nothing began, nothing began to begin, it was finished from the first, the day's destiny was mapped out from the first and it was finished from the first. Nothing was to happen and nothing happened. Everything was happening everywhere else, the weather was getting milder, I opened the window, it was a mini-Spring, couples walked up and down in town, couples walked up and down along the river, everything was happening except in the office, where nothing was happening.
What was happening in the office? Nothing. I was waiting for something to happen, but nothing was happening. Eggs Benedict, which I've never had before in my life, espresso, which I have very sparingly, and then nothing. Only nothing happened more intensely. As the caffeine crossed the blood-brain barrier, nothing happened very quickly.
I surfed the net, but no one had updated. I surfed, nothing had happened, I was the only one surfing in the world, everyone was outside, except for me, who was inside. There was only the outside, where everyone was enjoying themselves, and me in the office, who was not enjoying himself.
Eggs benedict, eggs in Hollandaise sauce on a muffin. Eggs, sauce, muffin, then espresso. Eggs benedict, eggs, sauce, muffin and a long herb-blade across the the benedict. 1) Eggs benedict (should benedict be capitalised?), 2) espresso. 1) Eggs benedict, made of i) eggs, ii) Hollandaise sauce (should hollandaise be capitalised?) and a long blade of some herb, I don't know which one, probably a chive, then 2) espresso.
Only half an espresso, but already too much. I had had an elderflower presse, thinking I wouldn't have an espresso, but then it came it upon me, I wanted an espresso, I wanted to work, I wanted to get something today, I thought: it would be nice if I got something done today. 1) Elderflower presse, 2) eggs benedict, 3) espresso, and I thought, I'll get something done today, I'll write something, but in fact I wrote nothing. In fact, nothing was written, nothing was done, the whole world was doing something, but I was doing nothing.
Lone chive across three eggs, served yolk intact, three eggs, in a row on a muffin - was it a muffin?, or was it a long piece of bread, a long half-roll? Long chive, and then sauce, and then eggs, below the sauce. The sauce, made of eggs, on the eggs. Plenty of eggs, first of all in the Hollandaise sauce, of which I know nothing, except that it was made of eggs, and the eggs themselves, three of them, in a row, yolks intact, white intact, no spillage, no messiness, and the half roll below, toasted.
I took my knife and cut the surface of an egg. I cut the surface - yolk ran into the white and into the Hollandaise sauce. Then my espresso, a taste of espresso. Then it was the turn of my espresso, which had arrived in a little but, as espressos should, but I knew not to drink too much. Then the espresso, I drank half of it, and thought: I'll be able to work now. I drank the espresso, having drunk an Elderflower presse, and thought: I'm in a position to work, I've had a good breakfast, all I need do is go back to the office, and I can begin.
I went back to the office. Everything was in place. Leaving late last night, I'd tidied u; everything was ready; there was no excuse. The office: pristine, and here I was, full of eggs benedict and half-an-espresso, and ready to begin, no excuse. And do you know what I did? Do you know what I did? I wanted to write, but I wrote nothing. I tried to write; I failed, my head was full of nothing, and I could not begin.
Do you know what happened? Nothing. There was 1) the desire to write, and 2) no writing whatsoever. Doubly disappointed. Disappointed once and then again. First the desire to write, and then thwarted desire, nothing written. To write, then not to write, thwarted desire, nothing began, and nothing happened. It was happening everywhere in the world except here, where it was not happening.
Nothing, then nothing. The desire to write, then nothing. It was a mini Spring outside, but nothing was happening inside. Stains on the windows, and nothing was happening. The plants watered, the office tidy, but nothing was happening. Everything was happening except something. Something was what was not happening. In fact, nothing was happening, and nothing was beginning.
Others would have abandoned the day; others would have bailed out, but I am no quitter. Others would have quit, but I thought, the caffeine will get through the blood brain barrier pretty soon. I thought: soon enough, the caffeine will move from the bloodstream to the nervous system, and so it did. Hours passed, and caffeine had passed from blood to brain, from vein to nerve, and there it was. Only nothing began. Only nothing happened, more intensely.
Subtracted life, life minus life. Life not yet life, life unwavering non-life. Life without distraction, life without achievement, life subtracted. Do you know what I did? Nothing. Do you know what I did while waiting for nothing? Nothing. Nothing once and nothing twice; nothing happened.
I looked around for someone to blame. What, was this life? Was this how it was supposed to be? Was it life I was living? What, was this what living was about? How, I thought, had I taken the wrong turn? How had I ended up here, with the heel of my palm itching? How here, with an itchy palm-heel and nothing happening?