With Liz and Suzy in London, Carey in Costa and others flung to the far reaches of the lower 48 my life has taken on a rather stripped-down look. It's hard to stave off doing the same things virtually every day when there is no one around to act as a kink in a way. There's no spontaneity. I'm a droid.
I remember in college being so absolutely fearful of constancy, of habitual actions, of having a fixed routine. It was like resolving to be boring, something I fear more than most major surgeries. I was so worried that it would invariably become this mindless road of regularity, of having the same breakfast every day at the same time, of having my traffic flow be the same, of that familiarity. I love and fear it. There is comfort in knowing that I don't have to reset my alarm every night, or that I know what is expected of me that day, but I miss being challenged; I miss having something to prove. I miss waking up with the day a blank slate of sorts.
Lately I've been reading a lot. I reread Blue Like Jazz a few weeks ago, and have moved on to The Story of B by Daniel Quinn (see some previous post where I talk about this) and Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott. Both good, both rather spiritual in content. Surprising; I avoided such books and usually stuck to fiction/biographies, not it seems its all I read. So much for knowing me, eh? Even I'm not constant.
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