That natural or unnatural aversion to things we love to do confuses me. I’ll find myself cleaning the window sills, shopping for the newest whatever or something else equally unimportant on my day off rather than taking the time to read that growing stack of unread books or taking some time to write. It’s easy for me to blame the consumer society but I think consumerism is a sympton rather than the cause. Once I start the writing or whatever I always feel better, calmer more focused and satisfied, comfortable really. The daily edginess goes away and is replaced by peace, no matter how intense the project is. Perhaps we have become addicted to this edginess, the tenuous aspect of daily modern life. Sort of the mailman who craves a comfortable chair but gets up and goes for a walk and then wonders why he has tired feet. In our case our “walk” is unsettling and leaves us feeling hollow.