Idling Away My Sunday
Several war memoirs I’ve read recently concern the desires of men who have long been in the trenches and, unexpectedly, those dreams aren’t often directed at a steak dinner, hot shower, or even sex. The predominant wish, the same (almost to the wording) from various sources and across differing nationalities, is for a Sunday at home without any sort of stimulation whatever. Warriors yearning to be left to the enjoyment of bird chatter, gazing into an undefined middle-distance with no one shooting and no one to shoot at.
I wrote a poem once, mostly about my belief that man is at his best when idle. And I am idle and it is Sunday and no one is shooting at me. I take this moment to be grateful, to remind myself as I often do, that nobody out there conspires against me and I conspire against no man.
There is much to be loved about being unknown, unheralded, un-sought-after, unindicted, unmolested and generally left the hell alone. That great majority of us who enjoy the status of no status …