Frittering away time gets a bad rap.
Even the word frittering gives just the right amount of ‘reductive’ when used to describe blowing off those precious hours, minutes, tick, Tok, tick.
It’s a flimsy-looking phrase too. Toothless, without much substance. And I know I’m going to come off all ‘back in my day’ now, but maybe this f-word refers to the fools who eyeball tech until their retinas run dry, blindly tossing away time on gaming and its sleazy cousin, digital slop. Day in. Day out.
I’m unapologetically critical here, ‘cause ya know what?
There’s wasting time and then there’s artful squandering. Slothful reflection. Languid stretches of lazy stuffed with introspection and meaning, maybe.
I refer of course to the immortal, soulful gentleman who made wasting time famous; that patron saint of idling, Mr Otis Redding who turned sitting on the dock into a meditation – catching mornin’ rays until the evenin’ came, watching ships roll in and then out again; a static adventure underscored by longing, perhaps?
Sometimes I wonder what the hell we’re all pushing and striving for.
Have you ever thought that life’s real juice might just be found in the longing – and not the doing? Could active stillness be a powerful, deceptively quiet f***
you to grand goals and the unrelenting 21st century pressure to be productive?
Look at that. I’ve just spent some time on a quiet and cold Saturday night in Sydney, writing a couple hundred words on doing nothing.
What a waste. Or not.
© Phyllis Foundis 2026