Done with my Holy Wednesday shift, which means it’s the end of the workweek for me and many others. Although I still have to clock in my nine hours on Good Friday (because we at the news business have no real breaks, yo), it will be from home, so no biggie. I picture myself on our balcony, the netbook in front of me, perhaps a tall glass of orange juice beside it, fucking around the Internet more than working. Unless something big happened, of course. God forbid the president chokes on a fish bone that day and be rushed to the ICU.
On Maundy Thursday, however, I chill. TV, books, bike rides. Except for quality time with my girls, all are existential pleasures. So the question: How to attain such near-bliss — if not total bliss — on a spiritual level? The Adam Yauch tribute in Rolling Stone, which I had the pleasure of reading yesterday over lunch, seems to hint it’s by taking the Buddhist path (many Kerouac books also say the same thing). Henry Miller in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare suggests it’s by abandoning the city (and all the things it stands for) to the simplicity and beauty of the countryside. I see their point, and I believe them; I just don’t have the balls for such life-altering adventures for now.
For the meantime, I listen to Lux’s “Northern Lights” and daydream about the ocean.
Sunset photo here.