Sunday, December 2, 2007

a scene

There's a scene in a movie that is quite familiar to us all even if we have never seen it: a modest house by a beach (the ocean is the Atlantic, of course), wooden siding, weathered paint, a leather armchair and afghan throws in warms colors and browns, a screened-in porch with a white wicker couch that serves as a daybed or the cot when the children are visiting the summer. It is winter, or at best, autumn - low season, the beach is deserted. And here is where a person - an intellectual - comes to think, to do some serious writing (if they happen to be a writer, which they always are). There's a dash of neurosis, maybe an ornery but wise husband, a troubled mother or sister, and lots of memories - always memories. There are walks by the waves (with or without a dog but always with thick sweater, cowl-neck optional). Here, there is no traffic or television, there's a local fisherman or hardware store owner who exists to point out directions and underscore how alien our protagonist is in this retreat despite property ownership. A retreat less for creativity and more for oblivion.

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