 Friday, November 04, 2005
Went on the ceremonial “last bike ride” this week, which I assume is not so different than the condemned man’s last meal. I flirted for an hour with a sunny sky and a new housing tract, which led to the fruit of infant asphalt and a nubile street, nary a house, still in that sublime state of traffic-less reverie. I road up and down it many times, watching the sky turn into a nativity scene – all pink and blue – and I rode it sniffing the air and accusing it of graceless chill even as it wore a 65 degree price tag. Some are never satisfied, even when the temp is twelve degrees above normal. I rode the path, gorging on the red farm in the distance, the soil tilled as if serving as a frame, and I wondered why the summer feels like a woman who leaves me every year. I came back and was surprised by company. I suppose the worst time for company is after a long reverie-inducing bike ride. I came back tired and hungry and in the unsocialable mood of the daydreamer. It sometimes seems the only time we get company is when I don’t want it. It seems any sort of escapism is punished early and often. Be it escapism found while reading novels or bike rides in the country or in alcohol, you can bet there’ll be a test at the end. The moral might be make sure you escape from your escapism before you arrive back in the real world. • • • • •
Comments:
Post a Comment
|
|
Desperately Seeking Retirement      |
|
| Atom Feed | |||
