Where one pours out their secret longings and wishes and passions. Shares their secrets. Worries their worries. Plots the destruction of their enemies. Conjures up princes to the rescue, bright futures….
I’ve kept diaries but, as mentioned in other posts, they’re always deadly boring…except for the one paragraph out of 500 you don’t want your mom, your lover, your boss, your children, your friends to read. So the whole little red or black book must be destroyed.
Blog diaries are different. Others do, or at least can, read every entry. So while I do not have to wax eloquent for each or any posts, I really do not want to shame family or friends with entries that are seriously dumb. Pretty pictures are always good…and perhaps a poem or two. Then at the end of the year when the blog-book is published I really can feel okay about printing extra copies for my children that, when they read them long after I’m dead, will cause them to remember me fondly.
ESCAPE: It is Sunday, June 6, 2020. Day 84 of my pandemic life. I’m escaping. Please know that I am fully aware of what small percentage of the world’s population can escape either virus and/or violence for even a few hours. Those of us who have the privilege of a day-away should acknowledge our luck
Today’s escape includes no conversations however short; keeping the blinds drawn except on the window that looks out on my bamboo thicket—which hides the desert sun from view; a tropical rainstorm ap beaming me to Hilo, Hawaii, and doing nothing useful for actual work-work or me-work around the apartment.
Most escapist of all however is making plans for the 2021 almost two-month trip to Africa. My friend Celia and I, the mildly-delusional instigators of this gigantic journey, agree that this is the biggest travel adventure we may ever take—so barring unforeseen circumstances like pandemic year 2 or the US pissing off every other country in the world so thoroughly no one will let us in—we will make the most of it. There are small annoyances to deal with such as whether we have jobs (issues of time off and money) and manage to maintain our usual good-ish health, but I’m sure we can work through them.
The big red circles on the map are where we may/will/hope to go. (Celia hasn’t approved Asmara yet…I may have to strike that).
I occasionally take breaks from the hard work of looking up things to do in Lilongwe and choices for the Garden Tour (no it’s not around some neighborhood with pretty gardens in some well-off suburb in some generally boring city) out of Cape Town or how far Glen Afric is out of Joburg. During breaktime I watch another episode of “Wild at Heart,” a completely enchanting British family drama shot in a game park in South Africa, featuring mostly South African humans and animals. Celia’s watching it too; it has replaced our journey for this summer.
It’s nearly noon. My goal is to avoid the dark and dreary anger and sadness that are in the forefront or background of nearly every waking hour…just for a few hours. I shouldn’t imply that all of my days are downers…they aren’t. I’m busy and healthy. But it’s hard to keep the edginess of uncertainty at bay.