gfrancie | saturday morning diatribe, tea included

I am feeling this need for escape. I am almost tempted to do something rash, like hop on a bus...bound for somewhere. I think I shall save up my pennies for a trip to some lovely place where I can be by myself entirely. I long for this fantasy of sitting on a parkbench reading my book and not being disturbed by anyone. Or standing alone on a street corner, where no one speaks my native language and I can remain in my own private world.
I shall disappear one day and return sometime later with my own adventures.

I feel some inspiration from a book I am reading about artists in Paris during the thirties after most of the americans had left for american with the crash of the stock market.
It displays a dirty sort of Paris. Henry Millers adventures as a half-way homeless person with no money (I should point out I detest him as a writer, but I admire these stories) living it up with whores who gave it up for a quarter. Making friends with sucidal artists (always the best)and just the general anguish and joy of writing. And Sylvia Beach and her dealings with Joyce...everyone improvising as they went along, some staying in a state of perpetual drunkeness. a melancholy sort of happiness.

I really had it made clear to me, that no matter what, you really can't build anyone up. It really does come within. As much as I wish I could help him realize things are good...the angst will just over-take him. Leaves you at a slightly confused point...do you stay or do you leave...but I shall think about such things later. there is no point in being rash. I was talking to a friend about how my own personal angst is lessening with time, and I feel naturally more happy. I am feeling more and more ambition about what I want to do. I still have that natural sense of self-doubt but I think I am able to look at it differently. I can recognize it more clearly and dissect it a bit and thus it dissolves with more ease. I suppose with age you can see things with a clearer view. Of course I have always felt that aging is a bit like gaining clearer eyesight. Often it makes everything so surprising. You see everyone, and various situations closely and gain something entirely different. Sometimes it is pleasant, and quite often a little dis-heartending. Like when you see your parents as truly human for the first time. *laughs*
So maybe growing up isn't so bad. It just takes a thick skin and a bit of humour and the insight to know when it is time to leave the party.
My mother said the nicest thing about growing up is realizing you don't have to stay up all night at a party, because you don't want to miss something.
I don't think I am quite there yet.
Which is quite alright.