Sometimes when I am overwhelmed by people, responsibilities, a houseful of disorganized stuff, I engage in a little fantasy. I run away from home with only the bare necessities and get a room (for some reason it always has green walls) where I read and write and have no contact with people.
I was thinking of this daydream this morning because we have a guest whose life is exactly that. He lives in a motel room, has only one friend, his barber (and he is nearly bald), and only three relatives, Bill and I and his brother from whom he is estranged. He carries the sum total of his possessions with him in a weekender bag, the kind that airline stewardesses drag behind them, and in a pillowcase which is about half full. He takes either a bus or a taxi where he needs to go.
The next time I begin my fantasy, I must remember what that kind of life would actually be like.
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2 comments:
Most of my life, I dreamt of escape. I would drive away, leaving behind everything, telling no one. I'd find a job and take on a new name, disappear.
Only in the last 16 has this faded away. Partly because there is nothing to escape from. Partly because it is harder to disappear now, too much proof of life, too much to lose.
I have that fantasy all the time. In fact, there's a great Anne Tyler novel (the name of which escapes me, probably due to all the chemicals released into my body after having had children) in which the main character does exactly that. I liked hearing about the man with the cabin bag full of everything in his life, with so few friends (including the barber he has so little use for).
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