I was a bit creative yesterday. I mucked about with transfers finding which papers and methods were going to work best. I breathed too many fumes, I think, and in the end I'm not sure how much further along I was than when I began. Just working, though. . . it is creative therapy. I'll muck about a bit today as well.
What I really need, though, is a road trip. Perhaps something small at first. I just need to get in the car and go. It wouldn't have to be that far. Just a few zip codes away, everything changes and I will not be known. One hour away and I am at the ocean. Two hours away and the landscape changes into something akin to an African savanah. Three hours away and I am sipping cocktails with the world's rich and famous. Four hours away and I am in a famously foreign city. Or I could wander backroads through small towns looking for remnants of the past. I have a week or so to do it.
And if that, then. . .
I am speaking for all of us who are routinized and live like mechanical shut ins.
But wait! What about the cat? And I was going to spray the yard and fertilize. And I need to call and have the mulch delivered for the driveways. And there was something else, too.
And there is dinner with mother.
How does one end up this way?
Two ways: first slowly, then suddenly.
It might better be said in a story. Wait. I think it has. "The Death of Ivan Ilyich."
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