Henry David Thoreau had his cabin in the woods, Howard Hughes retreated to a top floor in Las Vegas, Brian Wilson spent 3 years in bed. I have chosen an uncared-for, slightly grubby apartment a mile inland from the Catalonian coast as the location for my withdrawal from society.
I am not a very good recluse. I spend large parts of the day waiting for messages and replies and lamenting the lack of messages and replies. I don’t think that’s the idea. The rest of the time I spend worrying about what happens next and concerned that this is yet another ridiculous decision I’ve made.
I think about all the secret plans I made (while telling myself I had no plans) and how I’ve so far failed at all of them. I was going to take the time to improve my Spanish. I’ve opened one book once for half an hour. I was going to exercise. I’ve done 5 minutes of yoga then gave up in despair and exhaustion. I was going to eat healthily. Well, I haven’t had any cake yet but I’m really low today so I know I’m going to buy a ton of sweet stuff and wine when I go to the supermarket later. I was going to write. I’m writing this, I suppose, but everything else had stayed closed up and nothing is calling me.
But I have got up, washed and dressed every day. A therapist would congratulate me. And then I would go into an indignant sulk about being patronised.
What is the world coming to if a person can’t succeed as a recluse??