No, I don't think this a very good picture, but it is the most interesting thing I have on my computer right now. It has been a very rough week in more ways than one, and it has taken a big toll on my mental and physical health. After work yesterday, I drove straight to the beach. Poor kit-kat will be fed and watered by the neighbor. I am just pooped.
Last night, limp and tired, Ili and I had cocktails and grilled fleet mignons, potatoes, and asparagus. We polished off a bottle of wine with dinner and switched to after dinner scotch. We ate a pint of pistachio ice cream and watched "Pecker," then half of "The Moderns." We had passed out by eleven. I woke at eight feeling. . . you know the feeling. I will walk down to the beach in a few minutes and let the sea do what it does. I hope it will do what god meant for it to do whether it to heal me or to drown me. No in between.
Work and working. That is what there is. It is what we have.
Escape is what we dream. We wish to command our time, to piss it away in our own fashion. I wish to piss it away in my own fashion rather than pissing down the leg of some corporate board.
I will walk today if walking is possible. I've inflamed an Achilles tendon in my attempt to regain my youth. But if it isn't, I will bike upon the beach and swim in its salty waters. I will eat fish sandwiches and limit myself to beer. There will be books and there will be movies, and we will wither and wilt in the unbearable heat of the day. It is all I can manage for the moment. More would be unthinkable.
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