In the old days, the cry in the joints, when they were ready to close, was “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” -- Boston Herald (March 5, 1944) p. 19, col. 3
The meal is finished, the bill awaiting payment. The din of called orders and いらっしゃいませ indirect signs to leave. Maybe there's a concrete reason for lingering. The train won't arrive for a while. You're waiting for someone to finish shopping. The landlord is fixing the AC. Your parents have been fighting. You get an hour for lunch. Returning home means a slow spiral of distraction until rest and the cycle begins anew tomorrow.
A State Police office and a State Policewoman were on the premises when the Glass Hut was raided in 1960. They reported George Tecci, as was his custom, notified the patrons just before 1 a.m., “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” -- Record American (August 11, 1964) p. 8, cols. 2-3
Does the why matter? Isn't it enough to not want to go home? Isn't it enough to just want to be for a moment? The toll has already been paid, a bowl of negi ramen. Does that not grant me the opportunity to exist in space and time without spending more? The park is too far, my head too aching, the air too chill. I am here. Let me be here. Do I need a reason to exist, to be listless?
食い終わったらさっさと帰れ
There's no point to pecking at the oil in my ramen. No more than there is to counting the grains of rice in a bowl. No more than there is to playing any game. No more than there is to doing anything. Work and leisure both a conscious and unconscious consumption of finite time in exchange for a something which is nothing in truth. Everything is passing time until we die. It might be Zen or Stoicism or Ascetic. In any case, I choose how I while away my dwindling moments.
That, is itself, a freedom.
The meal is finished, the bill awaiting payment. The din of called orders and いらっしゃいませ indirect signs to leave. Maybe there's a concrete reason for lingering. The train won't arrive for a while. You're waiting for someone to finish shopping. The landlord is fixing the AC. Your parents have been fighting. You get an hour for lunch. Returning home means a slow spiral of distraction until rest and the cycle begins anew tomorrow.
A State Police office and a State Policewoman were on the premises when the Glass Hut was raided in 1960. They reported George Tecci, as was his custom, notified the patrons just before 1 a.m., “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” -- Record American (August 11, 1964) p. 8, cols. 2-3
Does the why matter? Isn't it enough to not want to go home? Isn't it enough to just want to be for a moment? The toll has already been paid, a bowl of negi ramen. Does that not grant me the opportunity to exist in space and time without spending more? The park is too far, my head too aching, the air too chill. I am here. Let me be here. Do I need a reason to exist, to be listless?
食い終わったらさっさと帰れ
There's no point to pecking at the oil in my ramen. No more than there is to counting the grains of rice in a bowl. No more than there is to playing any game. No more than there is to doing anything. Work and leisure both a conscious and unconscious consumption of finite time in exchange for a something which is nothing in truth. Everything is passing time until we die. It might be Zen or Stoicism or Ascetic. In any case, I choose how I while away my dwindling moments.
That, is itself, a freedom.