Staring up from where I'm lying on my back, I can see the wind stir the lines and sails above me. I can hear the familiar fabric rustling. There's not a cloud in the sky, and it's going to be a hot day. Great day for sailing. A stirring on my left catches my eye and I turn to see a grasshopper crawling along one of the lines. Dragonflies are buzzing in the morning heat. From nearby I hear a Hereford mooing. All of these things make it impossible to maintain the illusion that this boat is out on the sea instead of abandoned in this Texas cow pasture. I close my eyes and inhale the scents of the ocean: Indian paintbrushes and mesquite, a faint tinge of manure, the earthy aroma of pasture grass yellowing in the wet, Texas heat. "I am married to the sea," I think to myself. Somewhere, too far away to hear, seagulls cry.
This is the way of the world. When we're apart we drift from foolishness to foolishness, trying to pass our time under the sun. There is no shortcut from dawn to dusk. We must practice mischief and folly every day, lest we go insane. Spring from the bed and run out the door. When you reach the shore, swim. When you reach the cliffs, climb. When you reach the summit, jump. Just don't stop until we're back together again, huddling sleepy in bed, regaling each other with news from the outside, later dreaming of never waking up again.
At first I thought maybe it was pirates, but it's just this dried out old farmer on his ancient International Harvester staring down at me, not saying a word. He's chewing something and blinking, probably trying to decide if I'm alive or if I'm dangerous. 'The Captain always goes down with the ship,' I think to myself. "Mister, this here's private property," he finally drawls. Maybe I can just lie really still and he'll go away.
Hello, friends. I trust you're content and well-adjusted.
Later. Love.
