Friday, January 02, 2004
I think vacations are for people who get paid to take them, a class of people that pretty much excludes writers. Here we are, a mere 60 hours and 56 minutes into the vacation and already I'm losing the fight not to go back to work.
Just look at that dren I passed off for a journal entry yesterday. As if I'm not a hypocrite. As if I've never been an idiot. As if I actually care what Dubya bans and what Americans consume. As if. It was a post born more out of thumb-twiddling anxiety and the longing to touch the keys than from any actual ire. Oh, sure, stupid shit pisses me off (especially when I'm the one responsible), and the ephedra ban is certainly stupid shit, but it's not my problem and there I am acting all sanctimonious over something I honestly couldn't care a hill of beans about, just so I'd have something to write.
It's not that I want to be writing. It's just that writing's what I do and when I'm not doing it, I'm at a loss as to what else to do with myself, at a loss for ways to occupy my aching brain.
I walked over a mile yesterday, something I've not done in a long time, all the way around Candler Park and the golf course. As we passed the putting range, Spooky and I were flirted with by a couple of aging hippies with, apparently, a thing for goth girls. I think they were still too stoned from New Year's Eve to do more than putt. We crossed a little bridge over a creek that would have been very pretty if not for the trash floating in the water. The day was bright and clear and warm, the sort of winter's day that makes me miss childhood. The energy I had then. The ability to float on time, instead of drowning in it. The joy at simply living. I know that sounds smarmy. You had to be there, inside my head.
It's clear and bright again today. There's a crow outside my window.
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