Peeling fruit in one long strip

and the luxury of daydreaming

In 2018, my dream of writing a book was slipping into the ether of SoCal’s marine layer. I’d wake up to the cool fog that hung around the coast every morning, almost 365 days a year. There was also the less tangible fog in my head, which was there because California was and always will be a bit of a daydream to me. I still couldn’t grasp that the Pacific Ocean was ten minutes from my front door after years of wishing it were true.

But, by the time the sun burned off the fog, and I had enough coffee to blitz myself into a workday, my days filled with god-knows-what, and suddenly the day was ending. Golden hour mixed with happy hour. One year passed and then four. I can’t believe how little I did, with so much time, especially compared to today. Which, lately, if I’m lucky, I can get lost in thought for maybe 60 seconds in the diaper/paper towel aisle at Hannaford. Which, if you’ve ever seen how little $100 worth of paper products looks in your cart, you also know daydreaming costs money. You’re not thinking about creative plot developments, you’re wondering how you might be able to clone yourself to work four jobs to pay for various things you hold or wipe shit with.