Reading a book called Evening by Susan Minot.
Not normally one I'd pick up,
but it looked short and
there was a sailboat on the cover...

oh, and it takes place in New England
(which is where I belong).
(Outside of where I am, of course...).

It is dealing with the winding down of a life and
the memories one keeps,
or basically
the few
one keeps.

Most of them
that seem to pile up
like a snowdrift
for awhile, but then
they melt away with a new season of life.

That's how it is for me anyway.

I miss the sharpness of old memories and
the passion that moves them around in my mind.

Did I clean out the in-box with all that writing I did a few years ago?

I don't quite understand where it goes,
but lately it's become like
catching a scent in the woods,
familiar, yet...
or maybe in an elevator
of a cologne I used to know,
but I don't know why I know it anymore.

I'm wearing reading glasses now,
so it makes reading fiction much more pleasurable.

And I look the part of a woman arriving in her mid-forties when I have them on.

I'm now staring at A Moveable Feast

“I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.”  -EH

I am thinking that one of these days
I'm going to start reading Hemingway.