I have been up at my farm, by myself, for four straight days, without actually seeing another human except the water delivery guy and this other dude who was trying to sell the rest of his steaks. I have begun talking to the dog, asking him questions, taking his advice and discussing the plot holes in movies we’re watching.
This is the “shoulder season” up here – the stretch of time after “leaf peeping” and before snowfall. And though we may be two hours from the most vibrant city on earth, up here, you might as well be on Neptune. It is cold, very cold, and nary a truck passes by on the highway. The sun sets at 4pm, and all you can hear are the geese flying overhead to warmer climes.
Jon asked me why I care about teenage pop music. That’s probably why.
It’s funny, how much of your internal dialogue remains dormant when you live with someone. Being married, you rarely draw upon your inner dialogue, but now I am getting re-acquainted with the inner self I invented to get me through grade school, then to get through three devastatingly lonely years in Los Angeles in the late ’90s.
I’m beginning to suspect that this inner person is your companion for the last three years of your life, as you sit in a chair in an old folks’ home, uninspired even to watch “Matlock.” I making a note:
“Fill up life with tons of experiences so that ‘inner self dialogue’ and you will have lots to talk about when you’re 97.”