You know how when you don’t bring an umbrella, it rains? I didn’t bring a notebook on this trip, didn’t bring a sad copy of my screenplay, didn’t even have a pen in my pocketbook. In my previous so-called life, this would have been anathema; more: treason. I always traveled with at least one little notebook, usually a loose leaf the size of a deck of cards and in it I scrawled ideas, line for poems and always words whose meaning escaped me and that I would dutifully look up when I arrived home. Not this time. It was a wing and a prayer and a call for rain.
On the back of my electronic ticket, I scrawled what I hope might be a way back into the screenplay and an idea for a play based on a biography I read (a play! Jesus, who am I now, Arthur Miller?). Naturally, I am anxious about looking at those notes, for fear they are as ill conceived and fleeting as the clouds of St. Ives where I walked and where the sun occasionally broke through the clouds and illuminated a stretch of beach or a few boats moored at the quay.
Do you know that feeling?
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