Exit Stage Left

Amazing what situations can be tolerated when the exit is neon in a dark room: the room might be smokey, claustrophobic and crowded with shadowy features, there might be an undercurrent of panic or confusion, but focus on the neon Exit sign and leaving the stage is like hot knife-slicing through butter (where did I read that?).

NB. Recent observation of the globalised organic food market (is that an oxymoron or what?) is that the organic butter that I have been a little obsessed with of late, is a bloody product of Denmark WTF???

Exit plans are escapism hatches. It's a mental flight yet felt physically as a body released from the everyday reality, a form of gravity release. Gravity, in both senses of the word.

At least, that is how I am finding it. Have found it my whole life. Used to read gratuitous amounts of books as a child which lead to a certain kind of absence from the moment as well as parents being driven spare by their daughter who was so mentally locked in a book that she seemingly refused to cooperate with domesticity. (I still get the heebyjeebies when someone asks me where the scissors are . . . random . . .long story: no blood.)

I don't read much anymore. Which perturbs me, but actually, I don't really miss it although I like the idea of it, but I find it really difficult to settle for that long. Which might also explain the other absence from my life: cello playing.