Having readers is an odd thing. I don't wish to crow but I have a fair number of people who come here daily, presumably to read about my life, as that is my primary subject, even though I have been encouraged to look elsewhere for material.
It is comforting, in a way. I feel a sense of obligation to post, though I have felt uninspired lately. I haven't written anything that made me laugh in weeks. I feel sorry for my readers.
Today, I move out from the room that I have been renting and move into a new place, more of a home. Moving out is always accompanied by the same feeling: I don't want to clean the room that I was in. I understand why I'm expected to, but it disagrees with my basic impulse towards escape.
It's un-American.
I want to get in the car and drive 100+ mph, listening to The Cult, drive until I run out of gas, hopefully somewhere out in the West, though East of here. Just wander off up into the forest like a mountain man, a reclusive trapper, though I know not what I would trap. My survival skills consist of eating steaks at the local hotel restaurant, with steamed broccoli.
I couldn't think of the word that describes a solitary mountain man. A hermit, that's it.
I have no idea why I used a picture of the remote control boat lake in Central Park.
Nothing makes that much sense any more, or needs to.
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