Sloth in the Midwest
Orange Red Farm Door
I’m in this tiny town in Western Illinois and yesterday their monthly air raid siren went off. It wailed long and strong. Went on longer than the tsunami siren they’ve just installed at the end of the Balboa Peninsula. And at the end, the sound even got creative. Short and long and short again.
This morning a one- propeller plane flew over. I haven’t heard an airplane in two weeks, let alone a propeller airplane. I rushed out to have a look, and for one moment, it was 1910.
Then my cell went off, and I rushed back in to have a very modern conversation with my daughter.
Every summer I get out of Dodge, which is Newport Beach, CA. I run screaming to this tiny town in Western Illinois. Where, in the peace of the green countryside, the soft humidity and the quiet, I battle sloth and work. And sloth is winning.
Onion Drying Table
I love sloth. Love it. Can eat it standing up for lunch. Will do sloth for free. All day long. Everyday. Even when it’s raining.
Oh I love my work. And I am here to work. It’s part of the deal. The biggest part. It should be a cakewalk, right? No distractions.
Except for that deer sneaking across my yard. That thunder and lightning storm I never see at home. The Dairy Queen just a little too close. That airplane–
Okay, so maybe this is the deal. I’m slothfully working?
A new genre.