It seems that, if I'm not sitting at home feeling solitary this summer, I'm bound to be found driving around New Jersey trying to think of something to do. We drove around for hours yesterday, making pit stops every now and then for peach pie or non-dairy ice cream sandwiches, to be consumed on site, on a couple of crates out behind a farm, or a bench outside of the supermarket amongst the sea of pink flip-flops and mesh athletic shorts that is New Jersey in July. And it was really hot. I forgot about how hot New Jersey gets in the summer, as it is indisputably cooler down here, next to the bay. The summers up north are thick and drowsy. Other highlights of my twenty-four hour excursion up the east coast to clear my sludge-like thoughts: lots of deer, Lisa Greco, cold pizza, and an aged Jeff Koons puzzle on a dusty ping-pong table.
Now I'm back south. Thinking fondly about the deeper south, the Spanish moss, the breezy nights, and how I long to plunge deeper into this country. Entranced by the hollow glow of C-SPAN. Rolling joints on top of the Arts & Leisure section. Thinking, maybe I'll write today, maybe I won't, and who knows what's wrong with my ex boyfriend, my maniacally neurotic ex boyfriend, who calls me, urgently, at 5:30 in the morning, to insist he cannot be my friend. This weekend will be fishing and soft shell crab feasting, and next week, humid Singapore.
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