A twitch to the tiller
The lone long distant runner. The lighthouse keeper. The guy in the fire watch tower. All able to face the rest of today, tomorrow without the crutch of another human voice for distraction. I could go for that.
Today was my day to frequent public places, trying to see what I was missing with my isolationist mindset. Other than having to queue, and keep my ribs out of range of other elbows, not too much. Perhaps I didn’t need hundreds, nay thousands of bodies in proximity.
It’s time to plan the next chapters in my autobiography. Things will happen, but I might be dissatisfied with the outcome if I don’t give a twitch to the tiller. Do I want to work until I have to stop? Do I want to watch the water from here to eternity? Can I depend on my legs, if I decide to straddle the saddle and see the world?
What if I did the monkish thing and divested my worldly goods? Would I find a fulfilling calm in contemplating my navel (visible, having divested extra body mass as a concurrent action)? Ditto for my toes. If I kept two changes of clothes (laundry minimums), would all that extra drawer space cry out for replenishment? Would anyone want my old stuff? What about the books?
What about the books? Will I ever re-read the novels in my growing library? Shouldn’t I set them free, to find new minds and hearts? How many boxloads can I put in the rear of a really small car?
