There's a good chance I'll be at croquet. If I miss more than one of any class between now and then, who knows, perhaps I'll be home a good deal before croquet, and not return to Santa Fe. A senior's only job is to show up. I know it. Christ, everyone knows it. Now how much would you pay?

From the depths of Santa Fe I cry out to thee, o lord: please make me a sammich.

Eric is back in Olympia. The house has so much less possibility now; fewer ways to get cigarettes before my father goes to sleep, decidedly less weirdness, no unexpected calls from the hippie-punk photographer in Columbia, no phones answered with the musical quotation "You hear me talkin' to ya, I don't bite my tongue", no more mall walks which raise the hopes of every ring vendor.

Damn that's pretty:

Guillaume Apollinaire
"Le Pont Mirabeau"

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

*****************
Literal translation:

Under Mirabeau bridge slips the Seine
And our loves
Must this remind me of them
Joy always came after pain.

Let the night come sound the hour
The days go by I remain

With hand in hand let's remain face to face
Until beneath
The bridge of our arms pass
The so tired wave of eternal glances

Let the night come sound the hour
The days go by I remain

Love goes by like this running water
Love goes by
Like life is slow
And like Hope is violent

Let the night come sound the hour
The days go by I remain

The days pass the weeks pass
Neither the past
Nor the loves return
Under Mirabeau bridge slips the Seine

It's always this way. I walk outside and there's the holly bush, the little red honda, the stone house across the street, the badly paved driveway, all so expected and natural and without transition, like the last two months never happened. There are cats, at least. I had forgotten that somehow. Consolation, I guess. There's also an older, fifty-point-lower-IQ version of me in the basement at all times. In that room across the hall sleeps a wrathful God counting down the minutes to the moment he can smell my coat and confirm his true assumption. Not even the airport pickup and long island iced tea can put it off for long. I woke up this morning in Santa Fe and tonight I go to sleep in Ellicott City. A small portrait of hell.

I may suck at it, but playing Go is still fun. This is true of many things. In fact, I have no strong talents, but many things are still fun.