The Theme

I think I've already adapted to my self-imposed imprisonment. It helps that I've been prolific so far, and I'm reading (a luxury I have allowed myself. What do you take me for, a masochist?).

The book is a collection of essays about the (lowercase "p") poles. Ironically, my writing, my reading, and my current lifestyle all follow a theme of isolationism. The exploration of the uninhabitable ends of the Earth don't interest me as much as the mental fortitude expected from the people who entrench themselves in those US Navy-built yurts. Read the story of Ernest Shackleton's Antarctic adventure. He left civilization in 1914 while European gentlemen were slapping their neighbors with dueling gloves. Months later, Shackleton's ship is crushed in the ice--he and his men marooned on a speck of sub-antarctic rock. After two years of eating penguins and lichens, he makes a dash for help in an open boat across 800 miles of white-capped sea. When he's found by the manager of a whaling station--his first contact with the world he came from--the manager tells him that, back home, millions are dying and the world has gone mad. What's his first thought? Does he think it's all his fault?

I'm only gone for a few days, and this apartment has a wall heater, but I am missing the New Hampshire Primary and a couple of Duke basketball games. Baby steps. At the end of all this, I'll have a lot of writing to show for it, but I think I'm more interested in seeing what lies in the cold, unexplored lobes of my brain.

What I miss right now: I can't believe I forgot to watch American Gladiators!