''Why, boys, when I was seventeen I walked into the jungle, and when I was twenty-one I walked out. . . And by God I was rich.''
That's the theory, anyway. It's the desperate commitment that does it. Otherwise, you are simply a dilettante. And you know how it goes for dilettantes in the jungle.''Never fight fair with a stranger, boy. You'll never get out of the jungle that way. ''
‘I wouldn’t ask too much of her,’ I ventured. ‘You can’t repeat the past.’
‘Can’t repeat the past?’ he cried incredulously. ‘Why of course you can!’
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
She was The Golden Girl. But we know how that ends up. Reality always intervenes.
Halfway through Dry January, no booze, no sugar, little meat. . . I look no different. I doubt I have lost a pound. And living like a Mormon priest doesn't really agree with me. I think my imagination shrivels. I want to go have a big breakfast at the French Bakery this morning, two poached eggs, ham, and provolone smothered in a warm, creamy hollandaise sauce on a fresh croissant. A side of crispy potatoes.
Rather. . . a yogurt, a little home workout, and a long walk.
I don't think Robert Frost was much of a drinker. Early in life, I believe I remember, he had a bout, but he reformed his ways unlike Wallace Stevens who probably drank too much. In Key West, Stevens got drunk and quarreled with Frost. Another time, he said some derogative things about Hemingway in front of Hemingway's sister. That cost him a broken jaw.
My mind is a jumble. I'll leave it at this today. Perhaps later I will take a camera out. You know what they say--a picture is worth a thousand jumbled words.