August

A funny thing happened on the way to my summer holiday. Pseudo summer holiday. Aborted pseudo summer holiday.
I was prepared to take the month of August off. I would unplug with the the purpose of reclaiming my evenings for whatever I wanted as long as it didn't involve a laptop scorching my legs.

I planned to read books, listen to music, watch classic films with Sophie. I would sit on the and sweat and listen to the cicadas as Saturdays faded into Sundays.

I would do something artistic like turn this huge pimple on my forehead into a Mandala.

I wrote a post to let you know so you wouldn't waste your time coming here.

Source

When it comes to summer, I'd love to be European.


Alas, I'm a Midwesterner transplanted not to the wilds of suburban Pair-ee, but the foothills of the Appalachian foothills of Northwest Georgia.


Despite this problem of location, I'm going to give it a try. I'm taking an August sabbatical. Unplugging. Deactivating my Facebook account and forgetting how to log on to Twitter. I've pinned my last interest for awhile and offer apologies to friends with whom I'm in the middle of games of Words with Friends. I forfeit. You win. And you know how it kills me to say so.


I can't take time off work, of course, because no matter how many times I email him my bank account information, Dr. Julius Smythe of The Republic of Congo will not deposit that five million dollars of European lottery winnings into my account.


Therefore, I shall travel via the written word and music. I'll hike the Pacific Northwest with Cheryl Strayed, learn the Rules of Civility in New York City and jet off to Italy where I will continue to explore the duets of Enrico Caruso and Geraldine Farrar and the Italian Alps. (Residual obsession from The Shoemaker's Wife.)

If it ever cools off, I'm going to sit on the deck and listen to Saturday fade into Sunday.


Most importantly, I'm going to pull in my antenna, scale back my level of electronic stimulation. Close one window and open another. And I don't mean Window. I mean window. My eyes and imagination need a break from the screen. I need sensory deprivation, but not the kind that will let little swimming gross things into my ears.


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And then I checked my blog stats.

What the? What's this outbrain thing from whence came all these hits?

The number of hits kept climbing.

A friend solved the mystery. She saw That's Why linked under an article on Reuters. It was included as one of those "you might also like" aggregators.

What this means in the long run, I haven't a clue, but how can I have over five thousand people click on this page and not feel that I'm missing an opportunity?

And then I thought what an asshole idea that was because the people who come back post after post, the loyal readers are the people for whom I show up. Of course I welcome new readers and I'd love for them to become part of this motley group, but it's youse guys who complete me. It's for you that I edit until my fingers cramp and my butt spreads further.

When the hubbub dies down, I'll still be here. Me and this monstrous zit. I'm thinking of naming it Harold. It's so large, it could have voted in yesterday's Georgia primary if it had a current, state-issued ID. I'm a little worried that it might grow into a horn. Or worse - antlers!

Instead of wishing you a great August and going away for the month, I'm taking the more realistic approach. I may or may not be here. If I'm gone, it means I'm doing one of those things I wrote about or I've taken a sledge hammer to my forehead. And if I'm here, please don't stare. I'm hoping if we all just ignore Harold, he'll go away.

What's on your August agenda?