The pull to home

A week on the cape.
Afternoons of ice cream cones, egrets, sandy shoes and neat, white houses.

Here, the trees stand tall and solemn and somehow independent. Yards are filled with knick knacks and hand painted signs. Roofs leak. Paint cracks. And things works out just fine.

The Seventh Month Itch

Today is a strange day. A bad dream, an awkward look, a general sense of disconnect. It occurred to La Beav as she was swimming this morning that she felt somewhat homeless. The tidal pull of restlessness keeps carrying her away. Why lay roots out here, in Sandisfield, while the West is softly singing?

There are so many places. So many unknown creatures to befriend. Is it wrong to give in to the life of the nomad, if this life feels most true? Beaver has the saddest of feelings in her belly. Arising from a bad dream colors your day khaki. Nothing stands out. Little makes sense. It’s like she’s simply floating.

Time out

It’s been three weeks now that our happy couple has been in Paris-- City of mating pigeons, zigzagging between benches, dragging their tails. City of chocolate pastries and infinite politeness, except on the boulevards where cars hunt down small girls on bicycles.

After an early burst of inspiration, Beaver is left with some questions. Why did they leave the planet Franche in the first place? They left in search of some sort of dream…. It happens everyday; you put down the plastic bag your lunch came in and you take some time to daydream. Minutes later, the plastic bag is floating away and is it just your imagination or doesn’t it seem to float even higher the minute you run after it?

The parcours is similar. Franche. Manhattan. Sandisfield, MA. If you don’t run after it, it just might end up in the sea.