As Sam says at the conclusion of the greatest work of
fiction in the English language:
Well, I’m back.
Been back five days, actually. All dreadfully dreary.
All work and no play sort of stuff.
The vacation, as one should gather from my prior
posts, was one of the best I’ve had in years. Though sleep deprived (still am),
though I may have had a tad too much to drink one or two nights (days), we did
a lot and had a lot of fun in a beautiful corner of the earth, in a gorgeous
little apartment light years better than any hotel room we’ve long grown
accustomed to. On the ride back Saturday I was mighty sad and more than a
little depressed.
Sunday was fun: a trip to the park and library with
the girls. One ran, one played in the woods, and one meditated under a tree. I
was not the one running or in the woods.
Began Thucydides’ History
of the Peloponnesian War (abridged; that’s the ancient war between Athens
and Sparta) on the ride home. Got halfway through the 190 pages. But lost
interest once back in New Jersey. Set it aside, and continued plowing through
Silverberg’s At Winter’s End. Nothing
else is inspiring me; I’m slightly down because of that.
Sigh. It’s late and I’m tired. The summer shot by incredibly
fast (wasn’t it just the Fourth of July like last week?) and it’s unseasonably
mild here. That September nip has been in the air the past couple of days. A
tree outside my window at work has multihued leaves already, many fluttering
down to the ground. Soon the landscape will be bleak and barren.
Goodbye August. You rushed by so fast I didn’t even
get a chance to make your acquaintance …
No comments:
Post a Comment