The need to write is always there, even with not too much to say, but the sun in its brightness was welcome and I drove down to Edgewater to meet up with my art-making amiga to walk along the shore.
Everyone was out and I love seeing Segway Man and the chess-players, the big cars with their stereo systems and the man with the Lexus who plays his smooth jazz in the parking lot at a decibel level used more for Top 40 club music and metal shows, and kites everywhere, women in saris standing amid piles of driftwood and tangled fishing lines watching their children play in the waves, people tanning, unashamed of the pasty white.
"Don't touch that kids! Don't ever touch that!"
"But Dad, I thought it was a stick!"
Last time I checked, driftwood doesn't have orange plastic pressure action to contain the likes of smack and insulin. The beach has yet to be cleaned, and the sludge tunnel's trajectory is well-defined emptying into the lake, we sit on castoff picnic tables half-buried in the sand, and I'm barefoot with the jeans rolled up, infinite zebra mussel shells, black and mild stubs, and discarded syringes be damned.
I was baptized in this lake when I was sixteen, since I figured it made sense to make it my personal choice as opposed to the sprinkling given to me as a one-month-old who had no choice or concept of original sin.
I'm still catching up on the sleep, trying to slow down my pace from being in a city where there always seemed to be constant movement. I slept on the glider on the front porch until it got cold, drove around with the windows down listening to grunge bands, and got a cup of yerba mate so I could check my email and people-watch, because despite my enjoyment of people, I'm an introvert at heart as I make small talk with cigarette smokers.