Something immensely satisfying about eating a tuna sandwich on a Sunday afternoon. I feel connected to a past out of Updike or Cheever, the moment before unpleasantness seeps in. Carver, even. Glass of milk present only in spirit. Elbows on blue-checked oilcloth. Occasional breeze through an open window, wide, neat blanket of lawn tucked underneath. Etc.
Unarchived some old posts and published some drafts. Maybe I'll post here more this year. Nice to have a repository.
Despite its later associations there’s always been something so romantic to me about ancient Romans calling the Mediterranean "Mare Nostrum," or "Our Sea."