How can it be that I rode my bike who-knows-how-many-times to Surfers' End this summer but never noticed the aged a.k.a. classic 10-speed that, by the looks of things, was parked there all along?
Is it because I was so bent on my own purpose (being the locking of my bike) that I failed to notice anyone else's purpose (being the offering of beachy sustenance of which it's now too late to partake)? Is it because there were so many other bikes on the rack that this one, however colorful, remained invisible? Is it because, quite simply, I'm a space shot?
All of the above, no doubt.
That's what I was thinking during a walk on Second Beach yesterday, during which I encountered all manner of treasure (trash?): buried, washed up and otherwise.
And I was still thinking about it — somewhat crabbily, I admit — back in the parking lot, back at the bike rack, where I looked with envy upon a gentleman sitting in his truck in some sort of sublime state of mind as he puffed on a cigar.
And I was still thinking about it — somewhat crabbily, I admit — back in the parking lot, back at the bike rack, where I looked with envy upon a gentleman sitting in his truck in some sort of sublime state of mind as he puffed on a cigar.How to get it back (the state of mind, not the cigar)? To unlock/untangle the momentarily elusive satisfaction engendered by run-of-the-mill stuff, past and present? Stuff that's utterly unfancy & unworthy but remarkable in that it's utterly evocative of, um, home? Stuff that it's easy to deem silly/crazy/bananas to notice, but maybe it's even crazier NOT to notice?
Sigh. I think this calls for another bike ride ...
Speaking of bananas:
