clearing out a bunch of old stuff.

 

I’m at Old Buck’s Eyebrow. How’s that for a name? I’ll have to inquire about its origin. Oh, and I totally forgot to find out about the frog butler.

Christmas Cove, some island near South Bristol, Maine. All I can hear is in my head is

—what about Maine? Have you ever been to Maine? Stephen King Lives in Maine. It’s wonderful, plenty of those creepy little islands

Best part of the trip is reading. Everyone up here is reading and leaving each other the fuck alone.

I lost track of days. Today is the first day of fog. Delphi says we lucked out with the weather, but I like it this way. Feels familiar. I can sit out in the mist without the sun beating down too hard. On the porch with a beer and tea and chocolates and addy.

I am too indulgent with myself. I take one of the big chocolates, the one I know is toffee and eat it in two bites. It makes my teeth hurt, churns my stomach. Too sweet for me. I grin and lick off the bits stuck on my lips.

For the girls I will cut them into thirds so they can share, put them on a little plate for tea cakes. There are so many plates and cups in this house. I want to eat off of all of them before I go.

Every time I sit, all that’s in front of me is descent. I dread the fuckin thing now. Each day the damn book get heavier, but I have to finish it before too much new business.

Reading Garner make me think to my own Grendel. She’s been waiting for me since college, but I push aside those sentences. Goddamnit I HAVE to finish at lease CAGE this weekend. Sarah is waiting.

Everyone is waiting on me.

Fog pulls back a little and I can see Crow Island again, but nothing else. Ospreys in a line and a boat out at the lobster buoys.

At least I’m getting up earlier.

Plenty of daylight left

Cage cage cage cage cage… through the dying firelight. Keep moving. Write more tomorrow.

At a used bookstore in… forgot the name. where I bought Evangeline, also picked up a copy of Blind Assassin, a collection of DH Lawrence stories, a collection of Italian Folk Tales by Calvino (this would make a perfect gift for the padre, but fuck it, I’m selfish), a collection called Officer Friendly by someone I knew briefly at Iowa.

Those shelves need filling and I’m pretty sure a box of books was lost pulled out four crates from the garage in Dallas and couldn’t find what I was looking for. Oh well.

Maybe the new bookcases are just making me feel small.

Fuck this noise.

I’m going for a walk.

 

 

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