Thank goodness for good writers, who seem to know enough about life and describe it so well in their novels. I have retreated from the hell world in my head, after experiencing yet another man lie to me and “rip me off,” into the world of fictional novels. Reading has been a great respite from the angry thoughts I have had regarding my latest attempt to work for yet another lowlife, an abuser of persons, a liar, and a cheat. In Larry McMurtry’s book, The Streets of Laredo, he carries me away from myself, she who fumes with anger at the deceit that exists in this world. He very matter-of-factly shares his perceptions of the different sorts of people who walk the planet, which in turn, helps me to step back and, somehow, be more accepting of the way things can be, have been, and mostly, are. I realize I could never take my own story and turn it into a fictional account, although I would like to, if for no other reason than to see if I actually could. However, it would possibly be too depressing, since I tend to take everything so seriously, even my memories, which are defunct, dead, unreal, the past.
Letting fictional novels take the place of interacting with other people is my way of staying “safe” these days, when all the information coming in seems to indicate that we live in a world full of falsehood. Fortunately, I have learned to recognize when my own thoughts are paranoid, and know how to let them go. However, I still am unwilling to subject myself to those I deem deceptive, manipulative, and controlling. So I am back to staying in retreat, with books, and my dreams that come with deep sleep.
The planets are moving out there, and the astrologers say to just hold on, ride it on out, and go with the flow. The time of contention is passing. I hope so, but just in case, I am glad I have the quiet, solitude, and time to disappear into other worlds created by someone like Larry McMurtry. The minions of those bankers who harass me daily with phone calls, asking me what my problem is, are beginning to seem unreal, and it is becoming easier to ignore their scripted queries. The book I am reading is more real, more honest.
The sky has cleared in the last twelve hours, and there is a breeze making the forest sound as though the gentle Caribbean Sea is just outside, water lapping on the shore. Oh, right. It is the forest, with wind in the trees. The noon hour has come and gone. If I go dig some more in the garden, I will get hot and sweaty. I will go, but I may put it off a couple of hours, so I can finish this novel I stayed up all night reading, so that I may appreciate that which is right in front of me: trees thick with fresh green foliage, blooming peonies and daisies, tall grasses needing mowing, or not, birds sounding their calls. Even the butterflies have started appearing, along with a few hummingbirds. Out in the garden I will notice if there are any bees. I hope to see some, but word is out that the bees are dying off. I am hopeful this season, at this moment in time that things will somehow get better. Why would that be? It is because the cherry trees are full of fruit, the pear tree is going to give us a bushel of pears, that is, if the bear does not get them, and the peach trees are producing new fruit. Winter has passed, and a hot summer is just around the bend. I can still read, walk, dig, write, sing, listen, and occasionally, talk. It may sometimes be hard to know what is real, but if there is a great book available that describes things well, does it really matter so much, what I may perceive as “real” or “unreal?” Nope, for losing myself in a writer’s creation is almost better than “being here,” at least some of the time!