Monday, March 29, 2010
I think some people are doomed to be restless souls forever. My dad is one of them. He's always been the quiet sort. Never really socializing at (or even showing up to) social events. He's the sort that says a few polite words, smiles a weirdly uneasy smile, then retreats back to his "bat-cave". This den of his is decked out with maps of south america, a dart board with and shelves of CDs that I was very fond of stealing at fifteen.
Sometimes, when I listen through the walls of my old room, I can still hear him pull a tune from his his acoustic guitar. It's always the same several notes, skipping up and down the strings with a skilled aimlessness. It's like what I do when I can't pay attention in class and begin drawing flowery shapes in the margins of my notebook; it's nothing spectacular, but it hints at something large and impatient shuffling around in our brains.
Mom tells me I'm my father's daughter. I think this is why we get along so well-- she knows how to put up with our type.
I forgot how restless I really was until this last sunday. After church, I slipped into my car before anyone could bombard me with visiting teaching, invitations to those fhe academy-awards that every ward seems to love, and all that Holy-Joe nonsense. I pulled out of the parking lot as discreetly as I could, careful not to drive by the apartments that were in my ward, and drove through Provo canyon. I followed the roads that looked the most familiar to me, and wound my way through Heber, Park City and back again.
I finally wandered in the door at around 9. My roommate, sprawled out on the couch in pajamas, demanded to know where I'd been.
"Oh," I replied, shrugging a little. "Out". I didn't realize until later that this minimalist response is something my dad does all the time.
I don't know why I'm writing about this. And in a blog too... Well, there you have it.