Sometimes I think of Ocean as just a warm up for the real thing. To keep dirt under my fingernails before the planting season. So that I’m ready and sharp when the moment comes.
And indeed, I have had long spells where I worked on the real thing (The Great Writing Project), grateful that I had had days, years even, of focusing my camera on an image and then writing about it. I felt sharp and ready.
At other times I wonder if my breaks from the real thing are too long. This has been one of the longest ones. I haven’t returned to The Great Writing Project since winter set in. And winter set in early this year.
With long breaks, Ocean becomes more than just dirt on my hands. It becomes central. If I crashed tomorrow, there would be some 80 pages of unfinished text and Ocean. That would be my life’s art.
Last night I returned to the old neighborhood. I had been cold for most of the afternoon (I was not ready for this return to dreary winter) and going up Old Sauk hill, I thought that really, the evening could not look any worse than this.
We sat around the table eating well and drinking equally well and eventually I forgot about the unpleasantness waiting for me outside.
As midnight approached someone kindly called a cab and I allowed myself to not look outside much. The driver took a long route for this very short distance, but I did not mind. There are times when closing your eyes to the world and letting someone else take over life for you is immensely pleasurable.