working man’s thought

I suppose it has been too long; too long since I have gone away and found myself in a quiet, remote part of the world.
It has been too long since I have been anywhere spectacular, serene, or perfectly spaced away from my usual places of home and business.
It has been too long since I have been away from the gadgets of technology, computer screens, cell phones and text messages, emails, and the tall stack of bills which rise, but never seem to fall lower than halfway.

Of course, the idea of a warm island and white sand beaches with beautiful blue water and palm trees come to mind. I can imagine myself lying in a hammock, slowly swaying between two leafy palm trees to the rhythm of a Caribbean breeze, and beside me, a tall sweating glass sits with a straw poking from its top, and its placed next to a triangular slice of pineapple, orange, and a cherry, which are held together with a red plastic sword and propped at the top of my drink.
I could walk along the beach, feeling the sun on my face, and smell the coconut aroma from the lotion rubbed into my skin.

At nightfall, I could sit at a round table with a tanned-skinned waiter in a floral shirt, smiling at me as he asks, “And how would you like your steak cooked,” or, “Would you care for another shrimp cocktail,” and of course he could always say, “Excellent choice Mr. Kimmel. The garlic butter does go well with the lobster tails.”
I can see myself watching the sunrise and the sunset as it turns the horizon into an amazing shade of fiery orange.

I could sit in a small hotel I once visited in Paradise, Arizona. I could find myself sitting comfortably behind the wheel of a convertible and driving through the desert. I could be surrounded by desert’s nothingness; I could enjoy the quiet and watch the black, long-winged vultures turn motionlessly in the bluest sky.

I could spend a few days in an A-framed cottage while losing myself in a disconnected atmosphere of an old television set, and old telephone that hangs on the cedar paneled wall beside an old fridge, and an old stove in an opened room with old paintings (perhaps older than my oldest parent) and an old fireplace, which burns significantly bright and casts perfect shadows, say, like on the body of my naked woman as she waits for me.

I suppose I spend too much time in the same places with the same places. And each morning, approximately 3.8 miles north of Hempstead Turnpike and over Old Country Road, I walk up the stairs at the train station of the Long Island Railroad. I see the same people as they wait for the morning train to place them 47 minutes away from their homes and into the city that never sleeps.
I suppose I spend too much time on Lexington Avenue and not enough time at places like Columbus Circle, or Central Park. I suppose there is less opportunity for me to break away from my routine and see things like The Met, or The Hayden Planetarium.
All day, every day, I see the same things; I see the same tools and the same degreaser I use to clean my hands. I encounter the same mechanical problems and the same arguments with angry tenants in a commercial office building. I see the same bosses, lost in the worlds of their own egos, and pointing fingers while saying, “I don’t care if you don’t think it can be done. Just get it done, and get it done now.”

I do appreciate my ride home, however. I like facing backwards and looking through the train’s window, watching New York City disappear into the distance as I pass through Queens, and in no time…I’m home.

I don’t complain because this is my life.
In order to live, turn on a light, eat something or get from one place to another, I have to work.
It would be nice to get away though.
Even if only for a few days….

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