Since holidays often have that tendency of getting slightly (read totally, completely, fundamentally, catastrophically) out of hand, I decided to have a Lebowski Easter this time, that it, just take it easy. No definite plans for any of the days, except perhaps the Sunday service I reluctantly attend to please my grandmother, but that works perfectly for zoning out too. Come to think of it, the exciting practice of our Protestant church to randomly have people get up and sit down for hymns and prayers, which I always suspected to be about waking them up, might be a form of yoga before it was cool.
I’m not much into yoga though, so I went for my run around the neighbourhood, and the boundless nature of the weekend inspired one of those Forrest Gump moments when I just kept running for way longer than I usually do and then when I stopped I also stopped simply because I felt like it. When I first started taking my running routine ’back home’ I had the silly apprehension that I’d be branded the neighbourhood madwoman in yoga pants, but then I remembered that whenever I read stories as a child, I did not want to be the princess, but the court jester, so I decided you can’t escape your destiny.
The end result, though, is that I reconnected with the haunts of my childhood in a way that had been missing in the past decade or so: I again know where the angriest dogs are, which fence has the fluffiest cat dozing on it, which benches are the centre of gossip come afternoon, who is having work done on the house, which curtains move with an almost invisible flutter when people pass by or who has bought a brand new car which is proudly parked outside for communal inspection.
I also picked my read randomly off the shelves of our home library- Nabokov’s autobiography with a pretty dodgy early 90s cover and the kind of spine which invariably breaks as you bend it. I set at it in a leisurely manner, and promptly finished it of course, though all praise for that should go to Nabokov’s prose instead of any prowess as a reader I might have. I do read quite fast, but some works deserve more effort than others, a theme on which I will further elaborate in next month’s book review- because there will be one, following up on the first installment, unleashed in early March.
I punctuated Nabokov with more randomness- namely any football game that came on as per the schedule, plus some snooker, so I now have informed insights on a wide variety of less frequented leagues, such as the Scottish Premiership and the German Second Division. If you think such undertakings do not match Nabokov- think again, he was a passionate goalie and elaborates on the subject of how the English frown on the man in goal, the sad repercussions of which are still visible in the island’s style of play and the often inevitable buffoonery of their netkeepers.
And last but not least I reveled in the cats- especially the younglings, who are just entering that phase of discovery when the first hesitant step is briskly followed by the first death defying jump off the top of the stairs. They also make beelines for anything, or so they hope, because their sense of direction still has a will of its own, and they end up, fur shaking, eyes wide with astonishment and ears akimbo, against the nearest doorpost. Except Gombóc Artúr, the very first of our cats I clearly remember, and thus the archetype of the cat for me: he will forever be frozen in time, hardly bigger than a baby’s fist, standing above the breathtaking chasm of a two centimetre step, crying his sorrow to the universe and firmly unwilling to make the jump. He was a true philosopher and knew that once you dive into the abyss of life, there is no turning back.