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Thursday |
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I'm runnning a race and I'm
not sure why. It's not against anybody except
time. Maybe it's just human nature to lay up
supplies against winter, but in our case the
hoarding seems errant, expresses itself in a boat, chairs,
and fridge.
"New" used fridge displaces old that I advertise on craigslist. Why is it the kooks are always first to respond? Lady, I said to text, not call, and I don't need to hear every detail of where you're going to use it on your horse farm in Duvall. After ten minutes of her pointless palaver she promised to get back to me after she measured her space to see if it would fit. Click. The second, saner responder came for it sans drame and I wheeled it out to his truck. That was after a farewell cigarette on the stoop with Justin and Sarah, supervised by Miso. |
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I worked a bit, then went only
slightly out of my way to meet Sarah in Leschi
to have lunch on the boat.
Like a lot of waterfront communities, it feels out
of step with the times. It reminds me of childhood
Long Island summer vacation resort town visits.
After 18 years in Seattle I feel on the cusp of
really getting to know its greatest aspect--all
the water in and around it. Sure, I've swum, paddled, rowed, sailed, and motored its waters on
and off for years, but sitting in the stern with a
sandwich then lying down in the forward cabin (or
whatever you call it) put me in a state of bliss
reminiscent of this passage: He didn't find Fred all afternoon, for the not very simple reason that Fred was asleep on his sailboat, a secret thing Fred often did on warm days.... Fred would row out to his mooring in a little yacht club dinghy, scree-scraw, scree-scraw, with three inches of freeboard all around. And he would transfer his bulk to Rosebud II, and lie down in the cockpit, out of sight, with his head on an orange lifejacket. He would listen to the lapping of the water, the clinking and creaking of the rigging, put one hand on his genitals, feel at one with God, go to sleepy-bye. That much was lovely. -Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (Ch. 11) Alas, no time for a nap. Back to work (not unpleasant) and then home to 3 loads of laundry, hooking up a water supply line via creepy basement crawlspace, and then a bath. I'm reading, of all irrelevant things, In A Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson. He's a cross between Paul Theroux and Dave Barry, but not as outgoing as the former nor funny as the latter. By bedtime I switched to rereading Rosewater and was much the better for it. |
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