I never seem to get to The Point — the neighborhood, that is. It's not far, but it's apart, even though it's right there. And when I do get there, like the other day when I walked downhill to the Shipyard just to see what I might see, I always think, "Why don't I get here more often??"
The Point is another world. That's what I was thinking as I looked up at assorted vessels from near and far having work done ... or maybe getting ready for the Newport Bermuda Race, which starts today, meaning I have no time to spare as I'm supposed to meet Mr. Betty and Darling Daughter at the dock so we can go out to see (sea??) the scene.
What I really love about The Point is its age, this being the oldest residential section of town, with the Colonial riches to show for it. Just walking here (and I happened to be walking behind a couple who seemed to be enjoying the whole scene as much as I was) is revelationary. Not revolutionary — although I suppose it's that, too — but revelationary. I always think new thoughts in this old place. Nothing big, just new. Or not new, but I get reminded. About age, for the most part, and how at some level it's all so very cool.
I know, I know: I'm making little sense. Age is cool?? I'm in a rush — that being part of the problem (and the point). And it'd be so great to know where I'm rushing other than out to see the start of the Bermuda Race. To set a course or direction and follow it ... that being the rhumb line more or less ... where they make a mean Dark 'n Stormy ... which makes even less sense ... but bear with me (if you can stand it for one more second) ...
As, on this particular walk, I found myself looking at signs. Not so unusual. Not even revelationary. All just part of The Point.