A long time ago, during a Thoreau kick in college, I happened to stumble upon a companion piece by E.B. White about his visit to Walden Pond.
The piece involved him taking his son to Walden and watching him walk out of the lake, his bathing trunks cold and gathered too loose around his waist “like a cold grip of death.” I don’t know what made me think of that piece tonight while I walked to Mission Creek in the brief sun, except that FG calls Mission Creek a lake and there is the constant and heavy chance that I will never see him again. I want different than that, which is probably another reason why therapy is a good idea…I keep finding the same man.
I want different.
Someone who can breathe at Walden or Mission Creek Park.
These entries will get better again, dear reader. I am in search of brighter topics.
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