I’d like to promise this will be the last time I’m transfixed by the rhythm of the calendar, but I’d also prefer to be as honest as possible (except, of course, when I’m intentionally being fictional, if that ever happens).
Therefore, I have no idea how many anniversaries there are yet to come.1
It’s been a year now since my first day back in Santa Cruz.
He searched for a new epigraph upon which to recast his life.
Today I went to pilates, and then napped, and as I was walking the short sidewalk route across from the elementary school (now out of session for the summer) between the parking lot to my acupuncture appointment (i.e. sabbatical mentorship) I was completely overwhelmed by the breadth of this last year, and after ninety minutes on her table, then bought swimming goggles and, after waiting in the shade for a lane and reading the section about The Fire Swamp where Buttercup drowns in the Snow Sand, swam in the pool at the gym that smells like the old musty pine rafters of my youth and ages of my father not that much older than I am now, and shopped at a natural food store and am writing here now and then will go for a sunset hike up the road and fully play-test the new board game. And, hopefully, read a bit more, and maybe do a little work as well. I’m actually looking forward to the working part.
I’d found the new epigraph.
- Similarly, it’s entirely possible there are films not yet written or produced or screened for which we will someday make solstice homages.