Reading Fiction

I didn't want to think about anything, so I read the new Thomas Perry novel "The Boyfriend", trimmed my toenails, and soaked my feet in hot salt water. Read some off-prints, book reviews, listened to a couple of shows I enjoy on NPR. Dad called, and he sounded perky enough, but Mom couldn't get on the phone. Fiction has always provided great escape for me, gets me out of myself, reading Annie Proulx, or Pynchon, or McCarthy (the list goes on forever) I enter those worlds and leave my problems behind. I've done this since I was ten or twelve. Retreat into books. A reflex that's kept me alive. Knowing when to retreat. After the last week, I needed a couple of days off, I didn't want to think about the museum, or the way non-profit bureaucracies actually operate. I wanted thick socks, a place on the sofa, and maybe a Bloody Mary with a celery stick.