"The game of golf...





... would lose a great deal if croquet mallets and billiard cues were allowed on the putting green." Hemingway has never yet failed me.


I'm settling in. All the little wrinkles are arranging themselves and I find myself driving home at night on autopilot, because I know which way to go. Somehow though, it's comforting every time that I have to make a sudden left, skidding from one narrow lane to the other. Such near misses remind me that I'm not a fixture here. I used to belong somewhere else.


There are people I talk to, that I get along with. But as my reading list grows and my conversation becomes more cynical, I can feel myself retreating into a well-known second-grade psyche. Back when people were mostly just a bother. Occasionally having a chat was nice.


I find myself thinking that there's no one here worth knowing. That I got lucky before and I should just wait until I can find a nice museum or coffee house where I might meet someone clever or interesting. The coffee here is awful, I'm not even much of a coffee drinker and I can tell that. The military, especially the marines, make me feel like I'm in trouble when I talk to them.





But as dire and dramatic I sound, it's growing on me. We rescued a turtle this morning on the way to church. I love the constant rain. All the trees. And goodness, the clouds. The clouds here are marvelous. Going to the beach late when the water is placcid and mild, around 5pm. It's really just a pond. A big, balmy, historic pool.

-- G 'Bye, Sonya --

. ( 5.9.04 ) .