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I don’t know if it’s the five cups of designer coffee and salt-rich ocean air, but I’m feeling fucking amazing today and it’s bringing tears to my eyes. (Tearing somehow a recurring image in my recent letters.) More likely though, it’s because I finally got a few hours to myself last night to rebuild my psyche after three days of traveling and troubleshooting, eating reheated dinners, and sleeping on full stomachs. I sat on the porch in a rocking chair with the New York Times, occasionally glancing up to monitor the sun’s downward progress, and once she dipped too low to read I put on my headphones (The Bad Plus, Sigur Ros, Steve Reich) and climbed out to a rock on the shoreline. Across the bay I could see the sodium-vapor patches of civilization and until a cloud obscured my view, Venus was chilling west-by-southwest.
I tried my best to channel enough energy to make the waves become massive or have all the water start shooting straight upward from the middle of the bay. At one point I thought I made some progress, but some might say it was just my imagination. I chilled on the rock for maybe an hour, until it was dark enough to try and spot some satellites gliding smoothly across the sky, but alas, I couldn’t find any. Eventually, I retired to my room – the Bear Room, featuring bear lamps, bear bed, and complimentary bear jammies… okay, no jammies - to watch Band A Part, Godard’s pulpy masterpiece. Finally, feeling renewed, I bade goodnight to each bear visage, tucked myself in, and dreamt of lobster rolls, iPhones, and good friends.