slow life

My time is now my own.

This is a terrifying thought, mostly because it means I can no longer lay the blame for my own poor usage of it on any class, professor, or siren-call of the practice room. This thought has also come to me with particular force lately, as I’ve been immersing myself in the Victorian and pre-Victorian worlds of “Vanity Fair” and “Middlemarch.” No prizes for guessing which I like better–the inflated, chauvinist portrayal of women (weak and wily) of Thackery, or the delicate, joyfully clever investigation into the institution of marriage that Eliot gives us.

I’ll probably do a review of Middlemarch later, but for now, indulge me as I ruminate on a proper usage of time, and the conception of a “full day.”

Much (too much) has been written about the fast pace of our lives in this “modern,” “technological,” “twitterific” age (oh how I loathe that last word). I don’t mind the pace, in fact. There are ways to deal with it–the streamlined Google Reader, selective use of Facebook’s newsfeed, waiting until TV shows come out on DVD (and then appear on Netflix’s site for instant streaming), thus avoiding the ads, and also having the reviews of others to determine if the show is worth my time after all (one of my latest discoveries is the excellent “Slings and Arrows,” a sit-com about Shakespearean theatre).

These things help me separate the entertainment wheat from the chaff, but really, why should I kid myself. Every moment I spend trawling through the blogs I follow, every show I watch on Netflix, is time spent, not entertaining myself, but being entertained. Completely passive, requiring little thought or input on my part. The most I have to think about, say, a movie I’ve just watched is to decide how many stars to give it in Netflix’s rating system. Five divisions–five ranks of relative enjoyability.

Is this it?

What I find myself craving more and more (and this may merely be a symptom of being separated for too long from the academic constructs I’ve reveled in for eighteen years) is to be able to ask “Why?” not just express approbation or disdain. I want to WANT to analyze the media I consume, not just give it a handy thumbs-up or thumbs-down. I want to give my attention to the things that can stand up to analysis–an analysis which is not too byzantine and not too clinical–an analysis that results in some kind of conclusion, even if it’s tenuous. And an analysis that forces me to respond. I want to be moved to action. I want to go from reading Dostoevsky to choosing a job which is ethical. I want to fill my days with profitable work.

This is a Victorian concept–having a good character and acting rightly in every situation is the hinge upon which many Victorian novels turn. Profitable work is difficult to define, and I suspect my definition of it would differ from many people’s, but, with no mobilizing deadlines, I want to be mobilized by things ethical, beautiful, and worthwhile. I want to fill my day with worthy endeavors. I want it all to mean something.

This is grand talk, in sweeping terms, and I have no idea if I’ll be able to live up to my ideals in the future. But for the moment I have to try.