The wind has been howling so hard that all intelligent thoughts have been blown from my head. But it suddenly feels like summer, and I have a lazy feeling right down to my bones that (alas!) is inconsistent with all my resolve to get lean and fit and challenge myself both physically and intellectually. It doesn’t matter: I have a long history of resolutions and new beginnings that fade away only to be revived again with the start of the next new month, or week, or morning. When will I finally ease up on myself? Or as Monte puts it, when will I stop acting like an adolescent girl? Possibly never. These deulusions keep me going.
In the meantime, I’ve been reading more…the perfect excuse to
remain indoors on the couch. Currently I am revisiting a wonderful book by
Michael Chabon, The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. My
daughter tells me that I read it a few years ago. (“You passed it along to me,
Mom.”) But as Billy Collins wrote in his poem, Forgetfulness:
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of…
(Come to think of it, I like that poem so much I think I’ll feature it tomorrow as the Saturday special.)
Anyway, this particular book is bringing up memories of my childhood in Brooklyn -- it is set a couple of decades earlier, but the Brooklyn I knew was still distinctly colored by the events of the era it encompasses -- and the start of July has me thinking about the way it was in summer. I remember my father taking all of us kids for a drive and parking in a neighborhood nearby where standing at the curb and looking up we could see the fireworks in the sky above Coney Island. More poignantly, I remember a hot day when I placed a towel down on the sidewalk, propped up a small umbrella, and sat there with my sister Marlene, pretending we were at the beach. A kettle of water was our ocean. People passed by and looked at us with pity and amusement, but days like that with my sister, with our small non-adventures and forays into make-believe, are among the sweetest I can recall.
Now, back to the present: I have to gather my things for trip to Lompoc. It doesn’t sound very glamorous, but it will be pleasant enough. I have been volunteering as a tutor; I meet with a woman in the library each week to help her with her English. (She’s a very conscientious young mother with a good sense of humor, and I respect her efforts to improve herself.) Afterwards, Monte and I will go to the dunes with a friend -- unless it’s blowing so hard that the sand stings.
Speaking of trips, I am trying to decide whether to go to Turkey. (I never imagined that I would type a sentence like that and it would be the truth.) Seriously – it’s an easy walking tour (with some short drives) that starts out in Istanbul and culminates in the southern port town of Bodrum on the Aegean Sea. Afterwards I thought I’d fly to London and see my daughter. (She doesn’t know that yet. Well, maybe now she does.) Anyway, I am provisionally booked but need to decide for sure within days. Should I do it? Will I? Stay tuned…