Summer’s coming to an end and people are revving up for fall. There’s fresh bitching in the coffee shop, I mean fresh. Corporations, companies, bosses, supervisors, are getting slagged. And the air is on the wrong side of chilly. And there’s no happy light ukulele music playing.
You can feel the thin blue rubber-band in your head stretch. You can see the yellow stickies gather for a frontal lobe assault. Don’t even ask about the paper clips. Especially those big black spring steel ones that can clamp a binder to the side of a desk.
But like H.D.T. in Walden, I’m going to the woods for another few days. In these pre-trib days I’d like to see if it’s possible to enter this fall’s paper blizzard with the serenity of a Siddhartha bhikkus. And if not, maybe find a tunnel or a worm hole to January–where all the dropped reams and calls will be forgotten in the retreaded-hope of a “Happy New Year.” I’m not above the thought of losing a few months of my life for comfort.
That’s the plan. Walden woods. I’ll take the essentials–more than Thoreau perhaps. Fresh pumpernickel, old cheese, espresso, cigars, red wine, and tea for the evening. And books. Lamott’s latest. Music? James Taylor, Jessie Winchester and Jane Sibery are already there waiting in their old cassette jackets.
Just maybe, this head that’s losing more hair every day may surface. Just maybe this face that’s building a case for a fresh outbreak of humility, may turn toward a patch of sunlight and get struck in the eyes. And just maybe, the result might be a moment or two with a demilitarized heart.
Oh relief! Summer’s coming to an end but not everyone’s bitching. Across the room I saw a kindness, a smile. And now I hear a mournful Morrison tune. One that makes me feel happy in its melancholy corona.
