Back from Hollywood

I have just spent a wonderful week in a very elegant place, taking care for luxurious place of my friends while they were on the vacation - we do this almost annually now, when they leave and ask me to be so kind to take care of their pets & plants. The last time I was "in Hollywood" happened just before the pandemic broke and I remember informing them from here how is the situation going on (they were somewhere in Caribbean and completely unaware what was going on), in fact I was so worried not to transfer anything unwittingly to them, that I left them the key in a mailbox. Which was very thoughtful from me as I got Corona not soon after that and might perhaps even had it for a while before realising it. However, during my previous time "in Hollywood" I had a busy working schedule so it wasn't like I was really enjoying it, it was more a change of sleeping arrangements than anything else. This time it was different because I actually had enough time to rest and do nothing so it really felt as a vacation - it was wonderful to have the whole space for myself, my own music playing all over the place without concern do I bother anyone, parakeets were left outside of the cage and doing whatever they wanted in their corner of the upper floor, I would feed the fishes once a day and that was it. I had not switched on a TV even once. It just didn't appeal to me - I had my own computer but even so, wasn't interested in any movies, because I have returned to the reading. 

And this is interesting: why did it took me so long? All my life, since I know myself, I was a passionate reader and also loved writing my diary. But since I have re-located in Amsterdam two years ago, something has happened that I simply didn't enjoy these two life-long habits anymore. First, my backpack was stolen on arrival to Amsterdam in the train so there was a certain drama and heartbreak involved in being so connected with something material that can easily be lost or stolen, like why even bother with a diary when everything can disappear. (Even worse, my Teddy Bear was stolen and I will never get over it, even though I got two of his brothers as a replacement). As for books, instead of escaping into my beloved world of literature, I got distracted with the articles on the internet. And no matter how much I tried, the reading itself just didn't appeal to me - it was like my brain suddenly had a short attention span. I would collect and pile up books on my nightstand and they would just collect dust there. 

Eventually at the start of this year I forced myself into reading again - it was a conscious decision and wisely I refrained from any "must do" lists that bothered me previously. I always had some imaginary "must do" lists of classics that were never a pleasure and were always just a chore - I might one day return to them out of the sheer masochism but for now I am looking the other way and decided that life is too short to waste it on Moby Dick - we only live once so I might as well read out of the joy and pleasure and pure escapism. So I started the year with Kate Summerscale and her real-life ghost story, which was a little bit dry but god enough to keep me going. And than naturally not one, but two books about pop music, which was pure pleasure. Than a book about Aliens written by Paul Wallis whom I love watching on youtube - that makes a unimpressive number of four books in five months but what is really a good news is that I didn't need a break but continued right further with a political thriller by Irving Wallace and have other three books on a backburner, so it appears I am actually back on the track with reading. Same with writing my diary. And I am delighted that this inner balance just returned by itself, without me doing anything about it - obviously I pampered myself with a long walks and enough reflective times to finally come in touch with my inner self and who I really am.