Wind In the Oaks
Not a day to be Asea
I wake up often before dawn. I think about a lot of things, and this screenplay writing. I think about noodle making. I think about a giant turtle rising. I have a picture of a turtle on the wall in the bedroom, rising.
I have never made noodles from scratch. I have never grown buckwheat, organic or otherwise. I have some tomato plants, dill, and chives, and I long to plant crops on the golf course’s sixth hole fairway behind me. It is still illegal to grow a single pot plant in New Jersey, by the way. Go figure. I recall growing pot half a century ago, on the river side of our usually overflowing cesspool, north of the tomatoes.
Here on the sixth fairway, the oaks all have young green leaves. I sit here electionyearing, looking out the window to see full branches to and froing.
I am glad to be here, indoors, as more rain is on the way. Grey skies have always stopped me from wanting to be on the river. Call me a fair-weather sailor, I do not care. I have been out there in harsh weather; squalls and downpours. I am fine here, thinking about this screenplay, considering. I might just boil up some water and cook some udon.
There goes the ground hog. I have not seen one for a few weeks. We do not have gophers here. We do have golfers looking for lost balls in the poison ivy. Now I am thinking about noodles in the galley.
…And there it is again, the respite. A real time escape from notes, memes, trolls, and all the trappings of substack life. Noodles are calling me. I am getting hungry.
