Working even harder drafting the new novel, hitting the beach and the pub with Mon amour!!!!
Thinking about oblivion.
— at Rhode Island.
“All at once I entered a magic realm… a world of beauty and mystery…”
Harold Norse, Memoirs of a Bastard Angel
Other summers we’ve been at La Finka Caribe in Puerto Rico or Cape Cod, of the Rock House in Jamaica or La Isla Mujeres in Mexico, or elsewhere on the trail.
While the little one was in camp, we decided to stay nearby.
From Long Island, we made our way to Sag Harbor over the Ferry to Connecticut to Charlestown Beach, Rhode Island.
Walked along the shore in Orient.
And made our way to Rhode Island.
Greeted by a garden, birds, chips, a cat with six toes and no tail, named No Tail, who visits us every day.
Pete, the owner, brings us snap peas, telling us about the public space battles on the beach.
“A man was arrested for picking up seaweed,” he kvetched. “They later threw out the charges.”
Class conflicts are everywhere.
The kids are not with us.
One is at Camp at a nearby college.
The other is in Tokyo modeling.
Hold with open hands.
Let them fly.
The first days the beach is clouded.
The kids are on our minds.
Feels like life is passing.
We don’t miss the kids.
We miss the kids.
Like falling into oblivion.
All day we spend on the beach, reading Master and Margarita and Memoirs of a Bastard Angel.
Harold had an out of body experience:
“That night, unable to sleep, I gazed at the stars through the attic window. Boundless space. Infinity. My mind boggled. Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going? As I stood stargazing, I began to rise and soar like a commet, speeding out of this world toward the astral bodies, beyond space and time. A circle of light engulfed me as I floated in some fifth dimension, in a tide of faces, arms, legs, genitals – a sea of human bodies – thousands, maybe millions, swirling around in whirlpools. Then, as I had once done under ether, I suffocated, losing consciousness. So this was death! But almost at once I lived again – a new life – feeling ecstatic. Again I was standing in the attic looking at the stars. It was no dream,”
Norse, Harold. Memoirs of a Bastard Angel, p. 41
The teenager sends dispatches from Japan.
No Tail visits every day.
Douglas Crimp dies.
The greatest philosopher of my generation.
I think about his Mourning and Melancholy.
The clouds lift.
Revealing blue green waters at East Beach.
I look out and imagine.
I could be in Morocco
Or San Juan.
Or the dunes of Provincetown.
Or right here with Caroline.
Wondering about the treachery of the old USA.
“There is only so much barbarism or inhumanity anyone can take,” she wonders, thinking about the state of affairs.
Seagulls visit every day.
Greet the seagulls.
Munching on our watermelon.
Enjoy it guys.
There is plenty to share.
Harmony for a moment.
Enjoy the skies.