When we first came to this place, the house we live in, we did so after many deliberations. We were selling a new house and this one someone built in 1840. Reading Henry Miller’s book about Big Sur, I found myself every so often longing to live there. Such a pristine place, wilderness. No Internet. Then I stop and laugh.
I couldn’t do that. My office is my wild west with Internet. It is in a barn almost two hundred years old, an anniversary I will not celebrate from this life. No matter my optimism, (a Pollyanna attitude my sister-in-law calls hers), I don’t expect to live here when I am ninety-three.
Maybe alive, but living? To be so lucky to climb these stairs.
Why would I want to live here then? Because right now this old barn is my Big Sur. The views from its windows you have seen. If I can’t write here, I can’t write anywhere. And, when writing deadlines slip by me, which I think is part of their character (not mine), I love life.
This is what I get from Henry Miller. He loved life. I have not read any other book of his as yet, many of which were highly controversial. People who love life often do stir the pot.
Why do so many want to trap life with silly theories that they have no ability to confirm? Why indeed. If not yet controversial, I hope I will be. Not as a whiner, but as a lover.