There are days when you realize that you have come so far from where you started that it actually makes you question whether you are in the right place. And so on this rainy night as the raindrops crash against the window and the wind blows through the trees in the park, I think of the island.
It is autumn. On Friday and we are in North America, like Joni Mitchell, dreaming of rivers to take us away.
I wonder when it is that we give up the dream of perpetual youth that the media foists upon us and stop spending out days waiting for miracles and instead go back to simple truth of our childhoods: picking clams in the beach, stealing papaya with long stick and red faces, getting sunburn from running wild up the hill on bright hot sunny days.
It is autumn. On Friday and we are in North America, like Joni Mitchell, dreaming of rivers to take us away.
I wonder when it is that we give up the dream of perpetual youth that the media foists upon us and stop spending out days waiting for miracles and instead go back to simple truth of our childhoods: picking clams in the beach, stealing papaya with long stick and red faces, getting sunburn from running wild up the hill on bright hot sunny days.
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