Today I fly south and west to the coast, and wonder what I’ll find. It feels like it could be the last time in a long time. A lot will have to change for me to keep doing this. More and more I feel like a hermit or a Trappist, who wants nothing more than to be left alone to read and write. If that were truth I’d be writing more already, though. But something’s making a more quiet noise inside. And yes, my hearing is going, but I’m also willfully tuning out a lot of the noise that used to surround me.
I wonder who I’ll find. Which self will she be? It doesn't really matter, but the librarian/researcher is nice to hang around with, and after the research, a quiet drink and a walk on the shore, the colors kaleidoscopic and the crunching, crashing surf's punch. More of that, please.