Since
last week’s mini-meltdown that led me to throw away nearly three weeks of my Lenten TV hiatus in a succulent orgy of Netflix streaming and reality programming, I’ve been feeling much better though not rejuvenated. I’ve discovered that one of the biggest things I miss about TV is its presence. My basement apartment can be maddeningly silent. The footsteps of my upstairs neighbors are distracting but welcome, as it feels eerie being in the house completely alone. They might hear me if I have to scream.
Weekends without TV can be particularly quiet. Without windows that look upon the street, sidewalk, or even the back yard (my two windows face the brick wall 2.5 feet away), my apartment has no sense of movement or life. It is not only quiet, but still – like the place was abruptly abandoned by people on the run. To cope, I’ve constructed a few cheating crutches to bring me through.
The Sound of Silence
On Sunday I was cooking up a storm (plenty of time to make chili while not entranced by a Law and Order: Criminal Intent marathon). The silence and the stillness started to give me the heebie jeebies. I put on the radio and maybe I simply found the news about Libya to be a bummer, but the heebies and the jeebies remained. I put on the TV. I have an old analog TV so it makes that nice little electrified bwong click noise when I hit “power”. With nothing interesting on, I couldn’t bring myself to face the stillness, so I just put it on mute and returned to my chili. It worked. I felt comforted, like I had my rhythm back. As Mick Jagger said in the song that accompanied that tedious remake of Alfie starring Jude Law, old habits die hard. Through years and years of endless hours of telly, it has infused itself into my senses. My TV is like the Borg – I have been assimilated.
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| Not this Borg |
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| This Borg |
Sunday Exception
I distinctly remember being able to skip Sundays during Lent. The season is 40 days and 40 nights, not counting Sundays. Now, I’m sure this has something to do with old-time Lenten traditions of undergoing serious fasts and allowing the poor church patrons to eat a little something on Sunday so they had enough energy to get to church and sit through service. I’m also sure that Jesus didn’t “take breaks” from his fasting. Neither here nor there, when I was a kid I was allowed to skip Sundays and I’ve opted to continue what may be a family tradition or simple adult delusion. So on Sundays, I eagerly watch Top Chef and shamefully click through the channels delaying the moment when I have to press the power button and enter into silence.
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