A Potential Curmudgeon Goes Full Blown
A Tale of a Miserable Soul
The ominous, blood-red, blinking tally light of the answering machine (yes, I still have one of those); the unexpected lobby buzzer while garbed in p.j.’s and yesterday’s Fruit of the Looms when no visitors are due; the text with no contact identified; the Facebook message from a guy you haven’t seen since you were crossing guards on the same elementary school corner in fifth grade, mere children with the responsibility of life and death in your immature and very irresponsible hands – such are the unwelcome signs of the apocalypse when all your mood dictates is solitary seclusion.
To quote Australian-born, pop-songstress Helen Reddy, by all evidence, presently adrift in a Witness Protection Program, and her 1973 hit song Ruby Red Dress – “Leave me alone, won't you leave me alone? Please leave me alone, now leave me alone. Oh, leave me alone, please leave me alone, yes leave me. Leave me alone, won't you leave me alone. Please leave me alone, now leave me alone. (And should you somehow be missing the gist) God leave me alone, just leave me alone, oh leave me.” (At this juncture, you’ve surely surmised something in regards to the unpleasant direction of today’s essay, as it recklessly barrels toward the oncoming headlights of complaint and crankiness, like an airport drop-off chauffeured by Annie’s sibling, Duane Hall.)
|For all that is holy, won't you please just leave this fine lady alone?|
|Alvy Singer and Duane Hall, airport bound|
As much as the exposure of this very blog suggests a search and even sometime successful securing of a public spotlight, on many an occasion all I solicit from life is to be left blissfully, pacifically, quietly, serenely, relaxingly alone – a 2016 edition of Simon and Garfunkel’s Rock, “shielded in my armor, hiding in my room, safe within my womb,” hermetically sealed and stowed away for some future possible socialization, hopefully not scheduled any time in the very near future. Jiminy, if I could keep collecting my salary while somehow never entering the workplace again, that would be my Canaan, a gift from whichever of the world’s thousands of gods you would chose to assign it to. Is my current catalog of blocked and unfriended Facebook contacts, now threatening to outnumber and overwhelm the count of those with whom I maintain continuous communication, the contemporary indication of a modern Molierian misanthrope? Am I a contemptible cad?
|Satisfying today's educational portion of the program - Moliere|
No matter the positive or negative nature of this dispirited disposition, the seemingly simple aspiration of temporarily, self-imposed solitary confinement can prove as irritatingly elusive as a truth-telling Trump, a prophylactic employing Palin or a Sanders' soliloquy different in monotonous messaging from all previous, predictable pronouncements – modern technology has it made it such that we are all instantly accessible, and those seeking immediate entrée will no longer accept postponed correspondence. And so, one must always be slightly on edge, in alert anticipation of the call of the modern day town crier spreading necessary news, or fulfilling personal needs. All of this being said, there is a duo of unique exception who can contact me anytime, anywhere and be everlastingly, happily and comfortably embraced – one is a cat (no judging, please) the other, a homo sapien and composer of musicals (but not Cats.) Both, being highly skilled readers. should now be fully aware of their identities.
|Bernie Sanders (see: Pony, One Trick)|
This search for solitude, this quest for quiet, this pursuit of privacy is assuredly exclusively a First World problem, one driven by data plans, USB chargers and Skype, and ultimately of very little consequence or importance. But, sometimes, there is no greater satisfaction or relaxation than an uncorked Sauvignon Blanc, a recline on the settee ("couch" to those with less pretense), a properly aged fromage (see), some saucisses (ooh, someone has Google Translator) and a vinyl Jefferson Airplane platter, popping and skipping on the turntable.
“I Have My Books and My Poetry to Protect Me”
And now, live from the mid-sixties, when all of us were still in black and white, Simon and Garfunkel with a television performance of “I Am a Rock.”
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions? Contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org.