Some unsorted thoughts from this weekend:
Driving through Superior smelled like a trip into a foul lake of sulfur. I hate that town, I really do. A Superior gas station advertises that they sell postcards. I want to get one, but I’m afraid to stop and get out of my car.
I managed to finish all my reading. My parents now hate John Locke almost as much as I do.
A month ago, when we had a fire on our beach after my sister’s wedding, we almost froze to death it was so durned cold. Last night we drank Wisconsin micro-brews and ate S’mores around the fire, soaking in air as warm as a brisk summer evening. Impossible November weather.
Shell Lake was a mirror this morning, dead still. Upon returning to Duluth, I saw that the Lake was the same way… hardly any ripples at all. What a beautiful weekend.
I listened to the Phish Sugarbush show again, and was reduced a second time to a weeping ball of overemotional goo. I think passing cars were concerned about me. Antelope>Catapult>Antelope>Harpua>2001>Harpua is the most incredible sequence of music known to mankind. Beethoven, Mozart and Stravinsky have absolutely nothing on this band. Nothing.
It feels good to return home after three days, check my email, and find only six message of no importance. For all my responsibilities I have and imagine I have, I take comfort in that I can still drop everything and run off in the woods for a weekend, no problem.
I never want that to change. I never wish to be a fellow of such great importance that I give up that freedom to escape.