over here, I attempted an internet cleanse last week.
Speaking of varying levels, my success at this was questionable. While I proved incapable of physically leaving my laptop behind on vacation, I did manage to leave it behind mentally for some significant chunks of time. It spent most of the week in the bag, despite the temptation to keep up with each and every detail of the trail of destruction Hurricane Irene lay down in Vermont.
And I didn't blog for a whole four days. Where's my medal?
Though no one promised this, I am still waiting for the release of toxins and outpouring of creativity that I was hoping might come from all that wholesome, fibrous, face-to-face interaction with real live humans and real live nature, rather than this here screen.
I did, however, sleep quite well, and manage to scribble a few pages in the legal pad I purchased at the supermarket, trying to replicate what I read was J.K. Rowling's writing habits. Alas, the next Harry Potter-like book did not come pouring out of my head either.
All babbling aside, Maine was fabulous in a "life is blessed if you can manage to deflect, or ignore, the constant family tension" kind of way.
I love the sea. It slays me with its perfection. And I love trying out the fantasy of living right next to it, day in and day out, hearing it breathing, sighing, ranting, heaving itself again and again onto the land, and just having it there, stretching like a massive dark mirror, beckoning to you, right outside the front door.
As we walked along one of the many dirt roads, lined with beach cottages, Esther intimated she felt the same way. I felt compelled to apologize to her, to warn her about the torpor learning to love the sea will cause her for the rest of her life.
"This place can ruin you," I said. "Just like Paris, and, on some level, Vermont can ruin you. You will forever be comparing every place you go and live to this place. And even though you know it's not reality, and it wouldn't feel this perfectly blissful if you lived here every day, you won't be able to help missing it, on some level, all the time."
Esther said nothing, but I am fairly sure she gets it, already.
If you look carefully, you will see the picture that explains why I take far more pictures of Isla, lately, than I do of Esther.