
I call these Band-Aid weekends. Whatever's open in your head gets plastered over for a few days, just enough for it to coagulate. The older I get the less effective these bind-and-patch interludes are on my psyche. My relaxation genes are developing an immunity. The first instinct is to go farther away for longer, but I think that's just hitting the nail harder. Along those lines Mrs. Ares and I watched Into The Wild the other night. That poor kid read too much and worked up the ideal of getting away to the point where it drove him out where he didn't belong. (Reason #845 why I love Mrs. Ares: ½ way through the movie, when he's going on about wanting to get away from it all and go to Alaska, she says to me “He just spent too much time in Atlanta”.) No one in early adulthood should have unlimited access to Kerouac, Thoreau, and any Russian author. In my youth, upon relaying my discovery of Camus to Athena, she remarked to the effect that certain literature should have an age restriction.
I'm not sure what the answer is here. I'm mainly just spouting off at the keyboard because it's late and I can't sleep. Actually, I could sleep but I can't just yet. That's another day's post. As for this day's post, I'll give it and myself a rest.
1 comment:
We all want to be somewhere we aren't. I for years longed for "home". I have come to the conclusion this is where my family is. I at one pointed wanted to be "Normal". Well, you know that will never happen.
You have a stressful job, made worse by the hours. It is what you do, not where you are. I wanted some time off, now I really want to be working instead. We are rarely satified with outside things. Bandaids indeed. It is the peace inside that makes all the rest of it bearable.
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