the written word

We are eating dinner out -- the first such date since... well, since Europe. And we both bring something to read. A gift to each other -- bring something you've been wanting to read for this gorgeous evening out on a terrace, for a special meal at a place we never go to -- the local Liliana -- a Creole place that is just a tad over what we usually would spend on a meal out. But, it's been a while and they have a Tuesday special and today's Tuesday special is jambalaya and so here we are, reading happily and throwing out the occasional comment on what we've read.

I have with me a library book that's soon due and as usual, I've read almost none of it. So I give it a good effort and conclude at the end of the evening that it's well written but not interesting. It's an autobiography and I think there is not much that I love better than a well written autobiography, but there is something wrong with this one and I can't quite put my finger on what it is. Blandness of the entirety even as each recounted episode may be judged to be unusual.

And I think about this  -- the act of writing for an audience and I compare it to the act of teaching a class because in both worlds you strive to capture the heart of the listener/reader and I know all too well that just being a good writer, or being in command of your subject matter in the classroom isn't enough.

So I almost want not to write anything at all on Ocean tonight. I am that demoralized by this unsuccessful (in my opinion) book -- because if this famous writer cannot pull it off, then who are we, us lesser mortals to even try.

But then I remember that this day had such tiny but beautiful twists to it and I want to pay these due respect, bland as this all may seem now to the dutiful Ocean reader.

Breakfast, outside. To get us started.





And a look at this morning's flowers.






Then yoga for me, which is not much of a twist (except in the physical sense), but it does allow me to pass by prairies and cornfields and since I showed off the prairie here the last time, I can show off the tall corn growing to the west of us now.






And so long as I am showing off Things That Grow, why not once again take you back to our veggie garden, where Ed is picking pickling cukes and tomatoes in the basket.






And then I work. On the porch.





Where in this do I see even a potential for a good story? Well wait. The day's not over yet.

Here comes the delightful stuff. Paul's cafe. The library. Tennis among the firs.







And to Freight Harbor (tool shop) where we purchase a pole power saw.  For those tree branches at the farmette that are just too hard to get down with a regular pole saw. [When I am old and infirm, I will most likely miss these trips with Ed most -- tool shopping, viewing construction materials. Because it's always cool to participate in someone else's world -- one that places no demands on you, none whatsoever.]

Now, the beauty of this trip is that we are on Ed's motorbike. On a summer evening, a motorbike ride can be quite exhilarating. But on a highway, with a six foot pole saw? A challenge!

We go, too, to Menard's to examine materials we will be using for that forthcoming small construction project at the farmhouse. (More on this later.)

And finally we are at Liliana's for dinner and now is the time for us to sit back and enjoy reading together.






So, in the end, I couldn't keep the words out of here. And maybe that's not such a bad thing. They distract you from the faults of the other medium. Because honestly, the photos without the words would be not much at all and the words without photos would be bland indeed.

But I do feel, on this evening perhaps more than on most others, the pain of submitting something that is less than well crafted. A narrative that maybe will attest to the difficulties of daily blogging -- especially when posting takes place very late in the evening.

The optimist in me will say -- to a better writing episode tomorrow.