friday february 2.

this is like a vacation where you don't get to go home.  i'm always happiest
when vacations are over.
 
but at least i'm not cold.

friday february 9.

 pandora has one white toe. 

sunday february 11.

well, the honeymoon is over.  homesickness is especially bitter when you know it won't be home anymore when you go back.
i miss the t, the cold assertiveness of bostonians, the clothed legs.  i hope to never see another blueveined old gator leg on a wrinklie with brown socks, blue sandals, and baggy-assed madras shorts.
 
i want to look up at the sky while i smoke a cigarette and see skyscrapers, an old brick office building, and the
spire of a church framing a blue square of sky. instead, i see
 

it's got the upward thrust, but it's so unstable its roots poke out unafraid in the air.  i think my problem here is that everything rests on sand.  how does a yankee put roots in the sand?  it's hard to be so pointless.  i could drift away forever on tampa bay and barely scrape the bottom.  it's a short and shallow history, mutineers and tourists drifting through.  it's hard to feel so temporary.

wednesday february 14.

     i occasionally get the knack.   
i spent a fine couple hours at this picnic table yesterday finishing The Autobiography of Red.  i don't know who placed a picnic table in the ocean, but it looks like a piece of poetry.  the sand here is like clay and it pulls you in and the tiny spermy fish suck your toes for food.  no dolphins today, but monday i saw two slippery silver fins racing through the channel. now if only the floridians were as beautiful and peaceful as florida.  they break even the highest speed limits here, as if to counteract for the slow pace of their neurons firing.  st. valentine, help me to love these sunburnt people.