Guess what I'm doing right now?
I have been doing nothing since 10:30 last night. That's nearly half of a whole day (including the whole night) of sheer nothingness--straight, pure, unadulterated nothingness.
Have I died and gone to heaven?
I didn't start doing nothing until after I drove fours hours to Mt. Carmel, attended my dear uncle Marty's funeral, ate funeral potatoes, watched funeral slideshows and attended the post-funeral-family-gathering in the hundred-year-old-house on Tait lane.
And then I retreated to the Thunderbird Motel, which, btw, if you need to get your bearings, sits at the mouth of Zion's National Park, and also, btw, is the home of the Ho-Made Pies. (speaking of which, I did some digging and found out the dealio with the Ho-made pies.) (I'll show and tell after I finish doing nothing.) (But right now I'm too busy. Doing nothing.)
It feels so luxurious sitting here, with nothing to break the silence but the rattle and hum of the hotel room heater, and the beating of my very own heart.
Speaking of the beating of my very own heart, don't you lub that Rhythm of Love song by the Plain White Tees? Of course you do. Doesn't it just make you feel like you're in Laie, Hawaii at a townhouse party, dancing with all your neighbors on the basketball court in the back field? Me too! I especially dig the ukulele on the chorus, but my favorite part is the drum beat--ba dum bum bum--that starts on the 2nd verse. I'm in LUB with that part. That's why I just hit replay to hear it again. And again.
The only thing I would change about that song is the words. I would swap out the word "love" for the word "nothing." That way I could sway to the rhythm of . . . nothing.
I've been so busy swaying to the rhythm of nothing for the past 12 hours that I haven't even had time to turn on the t.v. in my hotel room.
The uninterrupted quiet . . . it's just . . . so . . . delicious.
In fact, it's time like this that I start wondering if I haven't discovered my purpose in life. To do nothing.
Maybe it's my passion.
You wanna know the best part about a hotel room? How you lock the door. And then you bolt the door. And then you chain the door. And then you prop a chair against the door.
And then you're all alone. And no one can touch you. Or reach you. Or find you.
There are no lessons to be prepared, meetings to attend, or activities to be executed when the door is bolted.
Behind chained doors there is no laundry to be folded or dishes to be washed--no lists to be made, groceries to be purchased or checkbooks to be balanced. The toilets are already clean and the dresser drawers are full of nothing but . . . nothing. They are empty.
The whole room is empty. And quiet. And nothing. Which means there is plenty of room for me. And my thoughts.
My many many thoughts.
And so here I am. At the Thunderbird Hotel. With the chair propped against the door. Channeling my many many thoughts.
Maybe if I sit here long enough I'll be able to unlock the ancient Chinese secrets of the universe.
And solve the mysteries of history.
And figure out where I put my hub's fishing license.
More deets later gator!