Out of Thought, Out of Mind

I originally had plans to spend the weekend at the beach, sunning myself from 9-5 instead of waking up late in the comfort of my air-conditioning, entering the city heat late morning, or afternoon, and spend a few hours at the gym -wishing I had more energy to propel myself along, on the treadmill, the never-ending rubber road on which I never seem to take a good, solid, forward step.

The beach plans were cancelled amidst the flutter in the office Friday afternoon. Actually, it hadn't been all that chaotic, just much to do before the weekend sprung upon us at the chiming of the eighteenth hour.

The plan had been changed to an Italian dinner downtown by the South Street Sea Port, under the name of Jackson Brown. To follow, a concert on the pier. Both were equally enjoyable but my mood, appropriately labeled, was listless.

Merriam-Webster, my most-favorite online dictionary, explains the adjective by stating it is, quite simply "characterized by lack of interest, energy, or spirit." Which brings me to my next topic of conversation. Conversation.

More so than not, I find myself in the peculiar situation of being "caught" out of thought, zoning out, out of it... Not listening. More often than not, I admit to the small crime of ignoring the small talk at the lunch, cocktail, or dinner table, ignoring my mother who asks if I am eating three meals a day, ignoring the station change on the subway...never explaining all to well where I was, or more importantly, what deserved my attention ever much more so than the one holding the proverbial microphone.

To further my thoughts, I'm not sure my lack to attention can be consistently be attributed to lack of interest, energy, or spirit. Of course at times it certainly can, but then what else could it be?

**

"Where is this bar? on Spring Street?" I asked a friend at a party last night.
"Spring Street Lounge. See these jumpy toes?" He begins, "This this little piggy drank some beer, this little piggy ate roast beef, this little piggy caught a cab, and this little piggy ..." By the time his song entered the fourth verse, I was a bit lost. I stared at the floor between his feet, glimmering with the slight coating of spilled drinks, dusted with dirt stuck to sticky-bottomed flip flops.

"And this little piggy went allll the way to the Spring Street lounge." He stops, proudly staring at me. Waiting for my response.

I can only stare.

"Not impressed huh?" He waits again. I snap to. And quickly laugh with him, while he walks away, tending to the next party-goer vulnerable enough for his antics.

Perhaps, in another circumstance, time I would have felt bad for not attributing, or furthering, our conversation. I would have apologized for zoning out, failing to listen, being a jerk. Something of the sort. Certainly at another time.

**

What is it that fosters this uncontrollable ability to look utterly preoccupied with something else besides the words being spoken? It reminds me somewhat of the scene in the newest superman movie, when he shoots up through the atmosphere, out into the vastness, emptiness of outer space - but cannot quiet his mind. He hears everything. But what is it that differs between superman's mind and my own? He hears everyone else - lacking the pressure of his own voice.