An Interlude

It seems like forever since my last post. Impossible, of course. One unit of forever would preclude any others. It's a singular quantity, much like one's need for Everlasting Gobstoppers.

This week, again, I leave for Hawaii, the Garden State. Spending twelve days in that tropical place would normally give me an overall pleased and contented air, but it's a business trip which immediately precludes any enjoyment. Indeed, the aim of the work is to make you forget that you're in one of the few true paradises that exist on Earth. Instead, one is greeted by featureless and bland block buildings inside which one will spend most of the day. I have commented on this in the past and, at the risk of repeating myself, I will complain about it again: there's nothing more satisfying than complaining, I think, and if the matter is a minor one, all the better.

There is another factor to the equation of this trip. It is the absence of my wife's presence, the thought of which puts me in a somewhat melancholy mood. I am an independent person, able and even eager to be alone in my (mis)adventures. At the same time, though, I am gripped in the clutch of sadness to think my only contact with her will be dependant on the weak link of a cell phone.

Ideally, I could bring her in a backpack with me, not unlike C-3p0 from Star Wars.

The only explanation is that I have become physiologically attached to her. I could try stabbing myself to see if she feels it to, but I'm already certain of the fact (also, stabbing hurts). When a few miles between our work places separate us, I can call her and know that I will see her shortly, hug her, pinch her ass and give her an evil grin. It's a daily dance whose steps will never cease to grow old for me.

And now, there's a wrench thrown into that schedule, that certainty. Take away the work and replace it with a cool pina colada and hammock, and my wistfulness doesn't change. Take Hawaii away and replace it with the middle of Kansas, but add her, and all is well. Give me an aching, scorching desert, devoid of life or water, and give me her, and I will perish smiling. Then she can use my body as an umbrella. So we both win, as long as she finds someone who can raise the dead- it shouldn't be hard, quite a few holy men wander around in the desert.

Twelve days, and each lasting forever. And then home, and joy returned.