Distant though physically close
Published Monday September 27th, 2004
It fails to not amuse me of my relatives passive confrontation to even suggesting certain chore-quality tasks to me. At dinner the topic or subject of who would do the dishes arose, I seemed the natural candidate for up to that point i had yet to do the dishes, and all others had already participated in this blissful necessity of hygienic eating habits. However, no direct appointment of the dishes was made to me until I insisted on assigning myself.
I've always been wondrous of the reluctances of my relatives, most of them, to specify or dictate specific task to me even with my requesting them, hints of subconscious reluctance was always in the air. A sort of suspicion along the lines of, "Are you capable of this task?", "Are you not to lazy for such (a simple) undertaking?" Many of, if not all of my relatives view me, and possibly my family, as lazy. How exactly this came about i have various speculations and reasons for; some true and others absurd.
Indeed amusing when, as I said, the subject of dinner dishes arose during the ending of food consumption, no one directly proposed to appoint me, and when one did, it was done with questioning, probing sarcasm, "I have an idea!: Why not Marco! .. ha.. ha?" Indeed, why not Marco? I find a certain bliss in doing dishes, with the aid of dishwasher or without.
As I've written before, having all the time in the world to do as I wish, without the constraints of school and tedious, boring tasks to leech away at time, I take a certain relaxed and more committed approach to most things I encounter which I would usually face with reluctance. A new characteristic most have yet to see in me this year, during this exposure to my relatives. Dishes is one of those activities during which I can completely remove myself from this world. Many other activities provide access to this liberating bliss, but they are not currently the subject. An off-track example: I currently write into a composition notebook, sitting outside on a table, high-strata clouds identical to those one might render in Terragen in the sky, and a slight breeze blowing while my cousins, aunt and uncle play a game, and my writing (that is, my hand writing) is more legible than it has been in the past 10 years. "Why?" I ask myself. Why not? Do I have somewhere to be, something to do, someone to see? I do not! My relatives talk, their words blurred into a quiet background murmur, distant though physically close, and it is just my pen, my paper, and myself. (Cliched, I know.)
We sit here on a balcony of our apartment-hotel, which from the outside looks like a female-parallel port connector laid down on a table of earth. Not one such building, but a scattered and intersecting many. Two days have passed once again in a speeding blur into unrecorded history (this entry aside), conscious only in our respective memories.
On Monday I woke up at an hour of 09.40. I had some breakfast and then left on my own and went on a seemingly brief, but long stroll through La Grande Motte. I returned at a few moments after 13.00, about three hours after departing. I viewed much, but not much worth the watch. After eating some things for a lunch, I Unwillingly collapsed onto my bed, to awake two hours later much rested and relaxed. I put on my swim suit and joined the rest at the beach, where I had said I would Join them two hours before. I applied some sunscreen to myself and joined my cousins in a sand throwing fight. After a good block of time, we returned to our homes away from home (away from home.) We showered, had dinner, and then I read. In the later evening my cousins Anna, Ursula, and I enjoyed each others company before going to sleep.
Today rolled along, and I woke to a stinging back, my sun-burned, of course! Beyond the balconies in out respective room-apartments I did not venture outside. I entangled my mind in Frank Herbert's Chapterhouse: Dune throughout the day. I find the Dune Chronicles absolutely fascinating.. A mesh of economics, politics, ,religion and humanity, among many others. Everything in which I have certain specific opinions, interests, and unanswered questions in one. Mystical combination with magical powers possessed by characters.. The one who originally suggested I read the first book in the chronicles was right in suggesting it to me. I find that I can often closely relate in various aspects and perceptions.. I feel as though one who reads these books would have a better understanding into my mind, and how I think.. Quite a self glorifying statement, I apologise.
I feel myself maturing, more inwards than outwards, then ever! My mind seems to throb, expanding not physically or in any conceivable mental way, but in a fashion expanding my perceptions, while concreting solid many ideals. Tantalising feeling, but similarly unsettling.
Swaying back and forth between topics, subjects and tracks (What track am I really on, anyway?) I return my attention back to the certain present reality. My fellow vacationers divide themselves nicely into their little comfort groups. Six into even two's. My cousin Martin and his friend Floris are seemingly bonded, always undertaking together their self-determined tasks and games with occasional commands from group of my aunt and uncle, Rita and Christoph. Finally, separation of apartments between Rita, Martin, Christoph, and Floris and Anna, Ursula and myself apparent, Ursula and Anna combine to form a third group of two who are always seemingly with one-another. I, myself as an outside observer muse at the couplings formed immediately as we boarded the bus which took us here.
Goosebumps hurt on my sunburned back.
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It fails to not amuse me of my relatives passive confrontation to even suggesting certain chore-quality tasks to me. At dinner the topic or subject of who would do the dishes arose, I seemed the natural candidate for up to that point i had yet to do the dishes, and all others had already participated in this blissful necessity of hygienic eating habits. However, no direct appointment of the dishes was made to me until I insisted on assigning myself.
I've always been wondrous of the reluctances of my relatives, most of them, to specify or dictate specific task to me even with my requesting them, hints of subconscious reluctance was always in the air. A sort of suspicion along the lines of, "Are you capable of this task?", "Are you not to lazy for such (a simple) undertaking?" Many of, if not all of my relatives view me, and possibly my family, as lazy. How exactly this came about i have various speculations and reasons for; some true and others absurd.
Indeed amusing when, as I said, the subject of dinner dishes arose during the ending of food consumption, no one directly proposed to appoint me, and when one did, it was done with questioning, probing sarcasm, "I have an idea!: Why not Marco! .. ha.. ha?" Indeed, why not Marco? I find a certain bliss in doing dishes, with the aid of dishwasher or without.
As I've written before, having all the time in the world to do as I wish, without the constraints of school and tedious, boring tasks to leech away at time, I take a certain relaxed and more committed approach to most things I encounter which I would usually face with reluctance. A new characteristic most have yet to see in me this year, during this exposure to my relatives. Dishes is one of those activities during which I can completely remove myself from this world. Many other activities provide access to this liberating bliss, but they are not currently the subject. An off-track example: I currently write into a composition notebook, sitting outside on a table, high-strata clouds identical to those one might render in Terragen in the sky, and a slight breeze blowing while my cousins, aunt and uncle play a game, and my writing (that is, my hand writing) is more legible than it has been in the past 10 years. "Why?" I ask myself. Why not? Do I have somewhere to be, something to do, someone to see? I do not! My relatives talk, their words blurred into a quiet background murmur, distant though physically close, and it is just my pen, my paper, and myself. (Cliched, I know.)
We sit here on a balcony of our apartment-hotel, which from the outside looks like a female-parallel port connector laid down on a table of earth. Not one such building, but a scattered and intersecting many. Two days have passed once again in a speeding blur into unrecorded history (this entry aside), conscious only in our respective memories.
On Monday I woke up at an hour of 09.40. I had some breakfast and then left on my own and went on a seemingly brief, but long stroll through La Grande Motte. I returned at a few moments after 13.00, about three hours after departing. I viewed much, but not much worth the watch. After eating some things for a lunch, I Unwillingly collapsed onto my bed, to awake two hours later much rested and relaxed. I put on my swim suit and joined the rest at the beach, where I had said I would Join them two hours before. I applied some sunscreen to myself and joined my cousins in a sand throwing fight. After a good block of time, we returned to our homes away from home (away from home.) We showered, had dinner, and then I read. In the later evening my cousins Anna, Ursula, and I enjoyed each others company before going to sleep.
Today rolled along, and I woke to a stinging back, my sun-burned, of course! Beyond the balconies in out respective room-apartments I did not venture outside. I entangled my mind in Frank Herbert's Chapterhouse: Dune throughout the day. I find the Dune Chronicles absolutely fascinating.. A mesh of economics, politics, ,religion and humanity, among many others. Everything in which I have certain specific opinions, interests, and unanswered questions in one. Mystical combination with magical powers possessed by characters.. The one who originally suggested I read the first book in the chronicles was right in suggesting it to me. I find that I can often closely relate in various aspects and perceptions.. I feel as though one who reads these books would have a better understanding into my mind, and how I think.. Quite a self glorifying statement, I apologise.
I feel myself maturing, more inwards than outwards, then ever! My mind seems to throb, expanding not physically or in any conceivable mental way, but in a fashion expanding my perceptions, while concreting solid many ideals. Tantalising feeling, but similarly unsettling.
Swaying back and forth between topics, subjects and tracks (What track am I really on, anyway?) I return my attention back to the certain present reality. My fellow vacationers divide themselves nicely into their little comfort groups. Six into even two's. My cousin Martin and his friend Floris are seemingly bonded, always undertaking together their self-determined tasks and games with occasional commands from group of my aunt and uncle, Rita and Christoph. Finally, separation of apartments between Rita, Martin, Christoph, and Floris and Anna, Ursula and myself apparent, Ursula and Anna combine to form a third group of two who are always seemingly with one-another. I, myself as an outside observer muse at the couplings formed immediately as we boarded the bus which took us here.
Goosebumps hurt on my sunburned back.
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