We took the eight-minute walk to see the ocean; rest assured, it’s still there. How to describe the deep grayish-lavender layer of cloud cover to you and how it made me feel?
A desire to never leave; that’s what it was.
The rain pooling on the railing was fun to watch. Its bubble leavings swirl and zip around like magnetized bumper cars. Despite the rain, I raked 6-inch blankets of fir needles, hoping doing so would make the grass return.
As natural as breathing, Dave and I fell lockstep into cleaning and packing up for home. But this, too, is home, so I sit. It’s a sun out moment; the air is fresh, and the chill of it in my nose feels icy hot. I survey the grass, looking for any new tufts. Sounds of the ocean’s low bass, squeaky wheels and engine’s growling are here, but quiet at the frogs and the once chittering birds.
A small fly is on my typing thumb. It’s smaller-stature than a standard house fly but much more haggard. Then it’s off.
And we’re off on the two-plus hour drive home.
At home, I watch the ducks mate from an angle where I finally see how it works; It’s weirdly inefficient.
There’s a red “F” slashed on a make-believe test, and I wanted to crumple it up and shoot a basket with it. I read a newsletter from “Story Unlikely.” The author’s writing chops blew my mind. How quickly I slipped into comparison, slamming my words against his in a contest neither of us signed up for.
Let’s say I do suck and never improve. Suck, suck, suck. My forever low bar is a limbo champs’ dream, so there’s that. And what if I give a soft golf clap to the better-than-me writers out there and stop measuring our dicks? Which I don’t have anyway. That’d probably be best for everybody.
Well, take care and keep fighting the good fight. I know I will.
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