Chicklets, I am ailing. I’m convalescing. Hence the long absence. And the worst part is that Mr. Mock is out of town so there’s no one to run to the store for orange juice, mindless videos, and Nyquil. (Because being moderately ill in our society, I’ve decided, is all about consumption. We focus our otherwise sharp minds on the pressing question of what to consume next that will comfort/entertain/cure us. Our world shrinks until it’s just us unwrapping the new hot water bottle and cursing ourselves for forgetting to buy drinking straws).
He recommends grandeur as an alternative to therapy, when self-pity creeps into one’s heart. It is a brilliant idea. And because he lives in Minesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes, he recommends a stroll onto the ice on your nearest lake as the quickest route to grandeur:
You could be living in south Minneapolis, in a neighborhood of comfortable homes with DSL and HBO and nearby shops selling latte and cranberry scones, but if you walk a few blocks to Lake Calhoun and stride out onto the ice, suddenly you are in Tolstoy’s “War and Peace,” waiting for Natasha and Prince Andrei to come lickety-split through the birch forest in the sleigh. The moment you leave shore, you are gripped by a sense of grandeur.
His point is that in doing this, you have to, to adpot Lulu’s terminology, get over your own self.
And when is one most prone to self pity but when one is ailing alone in the dead of winter? I am striving for grandeur, Chicklets.