Today, like most sundays, Mary is away, so I have the house to myself. Unlike most other sundays, however, my mother’s come up to Pennsylvania to visit. So far our contact has been limited to walking through the first of Harrisburg’s three summer festivals in Riverfront Park. I didn’t pay much attention to what was there as I promised Mary I’d go with her tomorrow and too much of any event, especially one with so many people, immediately sours me on the whole experience, but it seemed to have some interesting stuff this year. I suppose I’ll know better tomorrow.
I didn’t sleep much last night. My cousin had a wedding. Between the four hours of driving, the loud, persistent music at the reception, and the huge jump in social interaction (I’ve seen next to no one outside of Mary and my kung fu class mates since graduation) I was too ill at ease to sleep. I spent most of the early a.m. pew-pewing (or chop chopping, I’m on to the psycho character in Borderlands 2, so there’s a decided increase in axe murderin’), reading disparate articles on nonsense, and replaying minor social faux pas in my head. I passed out around six.
My grand plans for the day have quickly receded to somethings more moderate. I’ve repotted two maples into the largest sort of pots I have shy of litter buckets. I’ve cleaned the porch again. I’ll try to write later, but even after two espressos I don’t posses much energy. I repotted Bob the Norfolk Island Pine.
It’s just a quiet sort of day that should be enjoyable for its ease and leisure, yet I feel restless. I look for meaning in my actions or meaningful things to do, yet nothing seems to have a greater value than as pleasant diversion.
Perhaps there’s more to life than meaningful activity.
Maybe things are allowed to be merely fun.