Peaks Island, Maine is like a chunk of Smallville-cum-Norman Rockwell heaven; self-service honey stands and bike shops, picket fences, unlocked doors and tattoed-on smiles are par for the course. I've been here three days, walked all of the island's three and a half mile circumference four times and taken almost a thousand pictures. It's incredibly quiet. The wind's been calm so the nearest to hubbub status it gets is the far off echo of the ferry horn ever few hours.
I've done my best to blend in with the "locals" (tourist-season holdovers??), but perhaps the three layers of flannel is taking the when-in-rome thing a bit far. I searched high and low but finally this afternoon I found an axe and a pile of wood that I suppose could be cut into smaller pieces to increase the surface area for faster burning. Elizabeth has been a saint, as has her pooch Ganzey. I wish I could say the same for Ganzey's sister, Esther, a terrible dog who bit me in the back of the head a few hours ago and has been coughing and sneezing up my hair ever since. I am considering poisoning her. Musically I am inspired but not anxious, contemplative but comfortable--I like to think I'm making my Led Zeppelin 'III', although I never made a 'I' or a 'II'. I could weave some serious Tolkien references into my lyrics though.
2 comments:
look at you with your own blog. you better check for ticks after being in all that tall grass.
Paulie Roses
i say you better check those ticks for some peaceful wisdom after being in that tall grass
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