I am trapped inside the house by giant machines today and although it’s beautiful spring weather and I have an urge to visit the beach, see the ocean, feel the sand, the furtherest I can go is my own back yard. (a somewhat noisy, smelly place atm and not at all beachy) But sunlight is good for the soul, no matter how low the bank balance, how pressing the bills, how murkily depressing the writing path. (I really very much like the novel I’m working on right now, but the thing that I’ve just written? Not so sure)
Last weekend one of the people who used to live in our house unexpectedly visited and told wild tales of boyhood adventure, of returning home via the roof and of exploring the creek in the backyard for miles in either direction. I’m reading China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station and, just a few pages ago, one of the characters, a vodyanoi, swam away to freedom through a progressively clearer, cleaner river. Perhaps, if the machines don’t go, I, too, can swim away. (though the creek is not much more than a suggestion right now)