(no subject)
I have these two stand-by fantasies that I fall back on every time work becomes overwhelming and I am on the verge of cracking under pressure. The first is setting up shop on some remote island where I live without a cell phone, computer, or having to pay bills. It's basically me and Allen (and any friends who want to run away as well), lying out in the sun, eating coconuts or whatever fare you eat on a deserted island. I don't know, I guess I would need to research. Anyways, the gist of this fantasy is that I would be living free of responsibility outside of natural instincts and desires. We're talking the most basic level of the Heirarchy of Needs pyramid.
The second fantasy is to become a bohemian artist in a hippy loft somewhere in the cheapest part of Chicago city limits. I haven't worked out the kinks on making rent (which is why fantasy number one is so appealing) but I think it would involve a typewriter. Perhaps a cheap bottle of something from the corner store where I spend hours talking about art and love and the evils of corporate America with a shaggy haired guitar player named Jonas. In this life, I roll my eyes at the counter culture neo-hippies who blabber on and on about their views on capitalism but for the purposes of my bohemian daydream, that's what Jonas and I are discussing. And in this incense-burning, Portishead-loving, Salinger-reading lifestyle of mine, I spend my days loving and writing and by night haunting the underground opium dens (I know, suddenly I'm at the turn of the century in Paris) with musicians and poets. Clearly I've watched Moulin Rouge one too many times.
But then I realize that I will continue to climb that evil corporate ladder. And then I will get hitched and pop out a couple of kids and raise my family in a white collar suburb. And you know what, that's okay. For someone like me, it would be more difficult to keep up the improverished artist fantasy than it is to do what I am doing today. And as for that deserted island, I was never even a girl scout so I am pretty sure after a couple go's at the twig hut and spearhunting (wait, do the girl scouts touch on those?), I would assume the fetal position until a man with a helicopter and a Rolling Rock picked me up and brought me back to Chicago.
The second fantasy is to become a bohemian artist in a hippy loft somewhere in the cheapest part of Chicago city limits. I haven't worked out the kinks on making rent (which is why fantasy number one is so appealing) but I think it would involve a typewriter. Perhaps a cheap bottle of something from the corner store where I spend hours talking about art and love and the evils of corporate America with a shaggy haired guitar player named Jonas. In this life, I roll my eyes at the counter culture neo-hippies who blabber on and on about their views on capitalism but for the purposes of my bohemian daydream, that's what Jonas and I are discussing. And in this incense-burning, Portishead-loving, Salinger-reading lifestyle of mine, I spend my days loving and writing and by night haunting the underground opium dens (I know, suddenly I'm at the turn of the century in Paris) with musicians and poets. Clearly I've watched Moulin Rouge one too many times.
But then I realize that I will continue to climb that evil corporate ladder. And then I will get hitched and pop out a couple of kids and raise my family in a white collar suburb. And you know what, that's okay. For someone like me, it would be more difficult to keep up the improverished artist fantasy than it is to do what I am doing today. And as for that deserted island, I was never even a girl scout so I am pretty sure after a couple go's at the twig hut and spearhunting (wait, do the girl scouts touch on those?), I would assume the fetal position until a man with a helicopter and a Rolling Rock picked me up and brought me back to Chicago.