Within those other skies
Apr. 12th, 2004 02:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solafiammaThe dog and I are encountering some differences of opinion on our walks these days. When he's on lead in the park, he tends to prefer lounging around the perimeter, nosing along chain link fences and hedges for discarded goodies and satisfactory places to pee (of which there are many on both counts). I, on the other hand, find myself heading for the open spaces, where I can look down at my feet half submerged in overgrown grass, squint until everything is blurry around the edges and pretend I'm not in the city.
Just recently, I've realized that this urge to avoid the edges with their straight lines of pathways and fences is my brain's obnoxiously indirect way of telling me that I'm pretty sick of living in the city. Me and my brain, we'd like a cabin set well off the beaten track. We want to trade the constant drone of traffic and weed whackers and other people's radios for birdsong and crickets and the rush of wind through the trees. We want to walk out the front door into wilderness, even if we are afraid of bears. We want to never see another mall again as long as we live.
When did this happen? I've always loved the city, loved the noise, the chaos, the filth , the thousands upon thousands of doors and windows hiding their thousands upon thousands of secrets. So many rhythms and pulses, every street in every neighbourhood with its own particular music, its own secret blend of scents and flavours. Now I step out into the street and want to fold myself up in the sidewalk, because it's all too much. Is this part of growing older? Or just part of growing steadily more misanthropic?
Of course, when I talk about that secluded cabin, I'm talking about a secluded cabin with internet access, yo. I haven't completely lost my mind.
Just recently, I've realized that this urge to avoid the edges with their straight lines of pathways and fences is my brain's obnoxiously indirect way of telling me that I'm pretty sick of living in the city. Me and my brain, we'd like a cabin set well off the beaten track. We want to trade the constant drone of traffic and weed whackers and other people's radios for birdsong and crickets and the rush of wind through the trees. We want to walk out the front door into wilderness, even if we are afraid of bears. We want to never see another mall again as long as we live.
When did this happen? I've always loved the city, loved the noise, the chaos, the filth , the thousands upon thousands of doors and windows hiding their thousands upon thousands of secrets. So many rhythms and pulses, every street in every neighbourhood with its own particular music, its own secret blend of scents and flavours. Now I step out into the street and want to fold myself up in the sidewalk, because it's all too much. Is this part of growing older? Or just part of growing steadily more misanthropic?
Of course, when I talk about that secluded cabin, I'm talking about a secluded cabin with internet access, yo. I haven't completely lost my mind.
