Most years, Marianne and I go "down the Shore," as we say in Philadelphia, and stay a week in Cape May Point. Now, you can tell a lot about who somebody is by where he or she stays on the shore. Young and crazy? Wildwood. Parents of a grown son and former owners of a Ford Taurus? Cape May Point.
Nothing ever happens in CMP and that's its chief attraction. When I first arrive, I'm jittering with energy. We go down to the beach to swim and search for drift-glass and lie on a blanket and read. And as long as I'm there, I'll pick up a fragment of shell and write in the sand. Sometimes I'll get a story almost finished before the waves come in to erase it. For six days I'll write. Then, on the seventh, when I'm finally calm enough that I feel no desire whatsoever to write, I can come home.
This year it wasn't possible to spend a week in Cape May Point, alas. But I played hooky yesterday and went there for the day. That's why I don't have anything interesting to say today.
Tomorrow, yes. But not today.
Above: Me writing "Canute," the second of two stories erased by the sea. Before that it was "First Draft." Of the two stories, all that remain are a few fading memories. They'll be gone soon.