A hermit in his hermitage

I have the song Let's Go Fly a Kite by Richard and Robert Sherman from the Disney film score of Mary Poppins stuck in my head right now. I haven't got a clue as to why either. I just suddenly became very aware that my inner dialog was actually singing Let's Go Fly a Kite, rather than talking with its self. Maybe I am trying to tell myself something. Or maybe I have a synaptic leak that allowed that to ooze out of the recesses of my subconscious mind. Who the fuck knows.

Tomorrow I will be spending my work day alone. Bill is off to have some tests run at the doctor's. I actually am kind of looking forward to spending the day alone. Not that I don't like spending the day with Bill, it's just, well, rather than Bill actually annoying me, it's more the other way around. I actually annoy him with my incessant chatter about life in general and the ills of the world from my perspective.

Bill is like this living sounding board for me. I bounce ideas off him. If we were married I would drive him insane I know. I have far to many esoteric off the wall thoughts and way out there, creative ideas for him to handle in a 4 to 6 hour work day. More than anything, I bore him to tears.

So getting to be alone tomorrow I will have the opportunity to be alone with my own thoughts. Which is actually a rather pleasant experience on occassion. Part of the reason I enjoy blogging is because I get that alone time with my thoughts. The only real problem I have with blogging at this time of night (which really is the only time I truly have alone) is that I am usually exhausted by the time I sit down and attempt to collect my thoughts.

The problem with being alone tomorrow while I am out working is that eventually ideas and thoughts will come to me that I would probably like to put down on paper. Unfortunately, I will be driving or working on a lock or something and I will have to live with making mental notes to write about it when I have some alone time in front of this computer.

When I lived in LA I would carry a pad and pen with me in the car and jot notes as I drove in rush hour traffic. For those who have not experienced LA rush hour traffic, you are probably agast with horror. However, for those of you who have driven in LA's rush hour traffic you know that you could actually prepare a 9 course dinner and actually serve it while driving to or from work. Creeping along at 5 to 10 miles an hour gives one plenty of time to actually jot down thoughts.

I actually wrote an entire poem (one of my better ones in my opinion) while driving from Studio City to Ventura one stormy winter's evening. Here in the Ozark Mountains, it's pretty difficult to attempt to write even a phone number down while driving.

So tomorrow I shall most likely come home with a thousand mental notes. Very few will ever see the page. My thoughts are like that one lonely sperm that finally makes it to the egg after beating out 10 million other sperm rushing toward the same destination. One out of 10 million will finally hit pay dirt. I can almost guarantee you that it won't be the one I think the most poignant. But it will suffice because, well, because I have no other choice in the matter.

Picture this: Someday, in the not too terribly distant future, on an empty and stark white beach, crystal pure sand wrapping warmth around my toes, I sit. The sea an emerald blue, transparent gem, glissening off into the horizon's end. The sky a robin's egg, sailing endlessly through lofty cummulous circus animals. With pen in hand (ok it will probably be a laptop, but who's counting?) creativity flowing from my finger tips, I write (or paint or compose, or whatever).

It's a dream, we all need a dream. That's mine. Time, solitude, health is good, I'll take health at this point too, a dream. Alone, a hermit in his hermitage. A monk in his tower. Alone with nothing but time to just be in the moment. To reach out (or in) to the infinate.

Sounds like heaven to me.