Anywhere But Here
Steve, the barroom-gruff Boomer guy at the laundromat, says the vacation he and his wife just got back from, in Fort Lauderdale, was excellent. A customer chimes in, “At least you weren’t here!”
“Anywhere but here!” he howls.
My immediate thought is tinged with jealousy: Some people only. Have. Here.
They can’t jump on a ’plane and fly to Jamaica. They can’t take a weekend in New England. They just gotta sit tight, pressed like bugs under cloudy prairie skies and Be Here Now — because, c’mon, fucking admit it: it’s ridiculous and no one is truly happy “being here.”
Generally I don’t do well on beaches, unless it’s in my own mind. I get glimmers of other places, even places I’ve been to before. When the “outside world” — the Bubble and all its pushy-as-fuck extroversion — says “that’s the way it is!” well, I beg to differ.
Pick up a book.
That will bring you here, along with me.
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