In the hope of not wasting today in much the same manner, I decided that a morning bike ride would be a good start to the day. Though of course today is the Fourth of July and so my bike ride included seeing families set up grills on the lake front (at 8 in the morning! dedication! though only the 31st street beach area seemed to be truly filled up) and a morning audio treat from NPR -- the Declaration of Independence read aloud. I have to say, I think that might have been the first time (or at least the first time since elementary school) that I've heard the whole Declaration, and parts of it gave me chills. Sometimes I forget that it's okay to be patriotic and liberal these days. July Fourth rhetoric can sometimes come across as over-the-top jingoism (for the record, this is the kind of stuff that, when it's uncovered on some internet archive when I want to run for office in 20 years is totally going to screw me over. I'm just going to say it now -- chill out, media). And indeed, it's not unusual for Fourth celebrations among my friends to devolve into ridiculous performances of who can be the best gun-tottin' Amurrrica-loving patriot. But hearing the Declaration of Independence read aloud, I remembered the mythology of our country, our founding, our goal, our history that is supposed to help guide us, more than 200 years later to be the Shinning City Upon the Hill. Even if such an idealistic America doesn't exist, it was nice to be reminded of it as I biked on the lake front this morning.
I spent the rest of the day reading (crappy mystery novel, "The Hypnotist", more on this later when I finish it or give up on it), cooking (two quiches), listening to a book on tape (Murakami's "What I talk about when I talk about running," which is incredible and which I will discuss later when I finish), and watching some TV ("Downton Abbey," a PBS Masterpiece Theatre show which is surprisingly good).
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| Quiches -- mushroom, beet greens, asiago and parmesan cheese |
Around 5 o'clock I made my way to a Fourth of July party/potluck a few blocks from my apartment with the quiches in tow. It turned out to be one of those gatherings where you know a few people kinda well and a lot of people not at all. It's the kind of party that lends itself to breaking of into the group you know and ignoring that there's a whole other party going on. This is simultaneously a very pleasant, safe response (phew, I can just hang out with my friends) and a frustratingly isolationist policy (there's this room full of interesting people and I want to meet them!). However, it seems to be the not-knowing-most-people (who all know each other) and kinda-knowing-a-few juxtaposition that seems to least lend itself to chit-chat and introductions.
By the end of the party, I feel a bit frustrated by the lack of connection I was feeling with some of my friends. It was not helpful to be reminded by the continuous laughter, easy conversation and almost gauntlet-like arrangement of the Other People that makes me have to pass through these lines of happy, talking people every time I want to go from my friend's little hide-out on the porch to the kitchen.
When most of the group (including those I know) break off to go to the Point and watch fireworks, I stayed behind to clean, seemingly more comfortable in the roll of overly-anxious-to-help guest rather than overly-anxious-to-be-good-friends friend. I figure I'll join up with people later after I drop my empty quiche pans off at my apartment. Instead it turns out I've missed the fireworks because they were an hour earlier than I expected, and now the part of my Fourth of July which involves social interaction is over at a mere 9pm. I'm both happy and sad about this. Happy that I can just stay home, and do what I want for the rest of the evening -- write this; read, listen or watch more of my respective cultural media. Happy that I don't have to make an excuse for turning in early and don't have to work so hard anymore to make conversation with people who I'm not quite great friends with yet.
On the other hand, there's a special kind of loneliness that comes with the knowledge that, not too far away, people you know are gathered together and having a great time while you are by yourself.
In the past few years I've gotten quite good at spending time on my own, but I wonder what's the point of all this free time and freedom if part of it isn't spent in the company of others. I worry that I spend time alone too easily -- particularly that I spend unproductive time alone.
In some ways I've been slipping in my goals for this summer already: I haven't been writing as much as I'd like (look for a backlog of posts with pictures to roll in sometime soon here, if I can get myself to sit down and focus), nor reading as much (particularly not of substantive, intellectual work). Murakami has this sort of rumination weighing heavily on my mind. What does it mean that I'm concerned enough to define just what is a productive day, but not disciplined enough to reach that goal? And what are these goals in the face of youth with its parties and friends and possibility to be out later than 9pm on the Fourth of July.
I can hear the pop and bang of fireworks from my apartment--they've been going pretty steadily throughout the day, though now that night has fallen, the far-off boom of professional firecrackers is particularly resonant. For each of those thunderous rumbles, hundres of people--indeed, hundreds of people who arrived together as groups of families and friends--are looking up and oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing, while I had instead ended up alone in my apartment, looking ahead at a fluorescent screen, writing.
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