folded up in my beach hideaway. reading. chasing ideas around to see where they lead. ed ricketts and the bloomsbury crowd. i want them to meet. i want to hear the conversations. at night as i drift off to the land of nod they are together at charleston. talking, laughing, clinking glasses. someone is smoking. someone else is flirting. vanessa bell is considering adding a fourth lover to her nest. meanwhile john steinbeck has taken virginia woolf to the sea of cortez to clear her mind.
while i'm here by the seaside dear mama moss is back in kansas. her little rowboat is taking on water and she's sinking into a profound and deep confusion. so along with my other reading i'm reading things about dementia, like THIS. dementia – that terrible sea in which none of us want to find ourselves paddling. luckily she's in good hands with sister and she's been getting lots of family visits lately. i'm heading off to see her next month. the thing is she knows and is worried about how unreliable her mind is becoming. she wants to know why. why why why. it's an equation that has no why. a solutionless puzzle. in the meantime i find comfort, as i so often do, in reading and learning. if dementia ever strikes me i am seriously screwed.
there is also great comfort in art, flight, salt water and sand. the pounding of surf. roses. sleep. today i saw a raggedy man in a park above the beach pushing a stroller with a giant orange catterpuss stretched out inside. this made me happy and nudged me forward into the day. into the sun.
where i sat for a very long time in my jerry-rigged sun bonnet. letting the cold pacific do it's work on my feet.
and my mind.