august is volatile, it is brutal in its oven-like manner. Short on air, long on haze. It can melt men. Its been melting me, i have been feeling like a Zan—form of a puddle, things have been slow in the constellation. August is for the beach. With that in mind i made my way to the sands of Jones—Robert Moses great esplanade, because when in doubt, a dip in mother ocean will cure all that ails you...
i took a run though the back-reeds of the park, off the boardwalk and onto the sand. Around the hidden police hut and up over to the ocean's edge to meet a stiff east to west wind along the beach back to Field 2, where i dropped the sneakers and the keys and walked into the waiting Atlantic. The sea was unsettled, heaving short, choppy salvos at itself, as the tide made its way in. i quickly duck dived to feel its refreshment. Its coolness enveloped me like a walk in cooler, leaving no pore wanting...
i allowed myself to be washed away from the stress that has become my days of late. Idleness, or shall i say lack of financial idleness is beginning to take its toll. Life as a guerrilla can be lean and mean, that's why i run, got to fight it out everyday. i find a myriad of ways to spend a day—i've been writing here a lot, and making notes on new fiction, keeping up the apartment, staying on top of fantasy sports leagues, running regularly, biking, golfing and generally being, but its not paying and just avoiding the inevitable...
i left my mom's car at the house after its day of use to keep the dreck away as my folks enjoy their yearly jaunt to Greenport. i rode back, because three days of running wasn't enough, i had to put my legs through the gauntlet. I had planned to forage for food in the folks' frig, but thought better of it after noticing the small window i had to stay out of the weather. i packed up supplies—an onion, a tomato off pop's vine, hot dogs, a Tupperware of beans, a roll of paper towel and toilet paper—like i said, things have been tight in the constellation of late. i made my way back to the FHills. Back to the grind, as it were...
i usually take days like this, time and again, to stir up a little spark in the routine, but even the rare has become routine. i was hoping the ocean would motivate me today, instead it made me comatose, the bright grey sky above me did nothing more than put me in a trance, the sea was green holding me up, the only thing that stirred me was the impending doom of the afternoon showers that were to come. A fractured day indeed, 9 holes in the rain, a Met win in Arizona, how bizarre. There would be no pen to paper, just a bike ride home on a another tricky day...
i had a lead on a writing gig. Shilling woe for a political site, dry as bone, but cash in hand. Apparently my style was too abrasive, and i didn't fit their profile. This is the constellation, there is no profile, only logic, no matter how i come around to it, in the end there's always logic. Too bad i don't get dime-one from it. Or readers it seems. I get more hits on Facebook by throwing an innocuous comment about Yankee fans on my profile and i'm being celebrated and vilified for the next 12 hours, but a piece about how we're going to hell in a hand-basket and not a comment—nan one. Well, it just goes to show, i spit diamonds on the daily but world loves its horse-apple pie. Luck, circumstance—a shift in the time continuum, something will shake out and i'll be sipping champagne and high on boardwalk...
until it does shake, i wish i was ocean size...
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