Am I at battle with misanthropy, I asked myself tonight. It is not a hatred of mankind, mostly only a desire to be left alone, a selective desire to be left alone. Perhaps I hate interference, the interferers.
I have so few moments of peace any more. I am looking for a place to find some meditative place inside myself. I have never been very good at achieving or remaining quiet. I have little to say any more, but that is not the same as being quiet. Or, not necessarily so.
I have booked my flights to NYC - a few weeks at the end of October and beginning of November. I will get to enjoy Autumn in the city that I love all over again. This time without the family. It will only be to visit with friends, read books, and work a bit during the day. The place I will be borrowing, cat sitting, and plant feeding is near Fort Greene. I also have rooms in Tribeca and Dumbo, if needed. Three weeks will go by very quickly.
I read an essay about living in Brooklyn Heights in the 1950s tonight. It was by Capote. It encouraged me that my trip was the right one to take. My copy of In Cold Blood has gone missing. I am prepared to launch a journalistic investigation into the crime of its unexpected absence.
When I return from New York I will turn around within a week and go to Texas for Thanksgiving with the family. This trip will give me time to ask for what it is I am grateful.
I need some space - from whom, I'm not sure, maybe myself, my own thoughts here. I know that I love her, and much. I am also subject to something deeply felt that cautions me to be by myself from time to time, or just to get away, to be away. To feel differently from a distance, not only as a fixed, habitual, chronic response to the presence of another.
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