I have taken a break from the ocean;
the south wind has become humid, annoying.
Yesterday afternoon Bush flew overhead in a herd of gray helicopters.
Most sunbathers ignored him. All the surfers gave him the finger.
A big white man in an Ocean Grove baseball cap said: Look! That's the closest you'll ever get to the president.
Thank god for that, I told him.
This cafe is almost empty. Most everyone else is sitting outside. It is too muggy for me.
I slept poorly last night; images of Burn's The War blistered my dreams. I could see the distorted, pale, pale orange of the harvest moon.
I want to see someone less familiar than my child and my mother; someone I could scream at: Turn away! Turn away! The tide is coming in!
I used to have a friend of sharp blue stone. Now she taunts me with righteousness and questions my motive. There was no motive. It was just me, being too particular about what I needed from her friendship; what I would have needed had our honesty survived.
The waitress has asked me what I'm doing. Writing, I tell her, I'm a writer.
Wow, she says. A simple wow; a wow that floats away, disappearing through the doors of the kitchen. She brings me a fresh cup of coffee and I feel cared for. But it's time to go back and be the birthday woman. I smile at the thought.