Overall, I think the sin I struggled with most during my trip to San Diego was envy. I’d like to discuss this at length, but I’m tired and would like to make it to work on time tomorrow – even if it is a Friday. So this will be short.
[Famous last words of Ted Wallace.]
I just finished Life of Pi – Yann Martel is the author, by the way. I really should update my Goodreads profile; there are a lot of books I’ve read recently that aren’t included therein/on.
I’d have to say that I would recommend this book relatively highly. I’d give it two semi-enthusiastic thumbs up. I can’t really go off on a tirade about how wonderful it was, because it wasn’t. But it wasn’t crappy either. Very (brown) Indian – lots and lots of adjectives piled atop one another, which I find to be somewhat tiresome and frilly. The story, while not ridiculously exciting, moved along at a fairly brisk pace, for which I was and am grateful.
As far as making me believe in God (with a capital ‘G’), I’m not so sure. Probably less than Millman’s book Way of the Peaceful Warrior was a “life-changing” read [read my semi-half-assed review here]. Maybe I am and was too tired to take Martel’s implications and run and dance with them. Maybe they just need time to sink in. Man is an animal. Yay and duh at the same time.
Overall, though, it was an interesting and quick read and didn’t conform (in my mind at least) to one of the 21 (or however many) major plotline archetypes. Two thumbs, but not all that far up. Maybe waist-high, but not as stiff as the Fonze’s.
I don’t know if it’s the book, some bit of jet lag, or a combination of both and other things as well that’s left me a bit off today. I didn’t get very much done at work, which isn’t unusual – though I did take care of everything that might qualify as immediately pressing.
It was nice to sit in my chair and read with Laila Jo in my lap, purring like a fuzzy engine. She shad quite a bit while I was petting her – and while I was away.
Overall, I have an overwhelming sense of solitude. It’s not the sweet kind that comes with finally having some time to myself after a stretch of busy-ness, nor is it the bitter kind that’s soured by loneliness. My solitude is more of a fact: it just is.
I flew to the other side of the country and back again over the course of three days – albeit accompanied (to a certain extent) the entire time. I returned home to find things pretty much as I had left them. I did not have a sense of home-coming. In fact, when I returned a text to a friend of mine, I couldn’t bring myself to say “it’s good to be home”, rather, I said “it’s good to be back“. I struggled with my choice of words for a moment, deciding to err on the side of truthfulness.
Not that I’m not home. Nor am I in some sort of melancholic malaise. I just am, and that’s a very bland fact right now. Not nearly as exciting as the yogis and zen masters make it out to seem. At least not right now. I’m going to bed. Things are always different in the morning.