Praying, Dreaming, Wishful-Thinking

                                                                

I take two long luxurious baths a day:  one at 6:30 am and the other at 8 p.m.  My landlady might not appreciate my “luxurious” use of water.  My rent includes water, yet she always sends a plumber to check my toilet for leaks, as if that is the problem.  I guess she doesn't know I am not in line with “tight-fisted” Mainers who practice constraint in all things. But I will not sacrifice my baths or the water it takes to achieve my luxurious experience of them

In the morning, I let the water run hot.  I pour honey and milk into the steam. Then mediate, pray, wish, think, and travel far away in my mind, so far I forget time and place. Mostly, I think about Maine and how strange and wonderful it is.  I think about the mystery that brought me here. First, to blue collar South Portland, and then the Craigslist add of an attic apartment in the city of Portland, which I answered. I have always dreamed of living in New England. Now I am.  I think about the silence and how the sea gulls, ambulance and police sirens, and summer tourists are the noisiest things in town. I think about how during the winter the crashing waves might sound like the slapping thighs of beautiful obese women in Botero paintings. I think how the city is full of white bird feathers.  I think about the Maine lobster I must learn to crack and eat, and all the lighthouses I must visit. I think about taking a train to Boston and wonder how it will feel to visit a place of revolution, gangsters, Harvard, preppies, Wasps, and Kennedys. I think about taking the ferry to Peaks Island; Peaks Island, across the from Portland, lured me to Maine after reading an article in a Boston paper about its mystique, loneliness, and loveliness. I think about how I must get to Acadia National Park and visit the once famous playground of the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts.  Mostly, I think about how I love Maine, even though I will not stay. 

At night, in the water, I practice my kegel exercises.  I let the water run from steaming hot to warm to cold.  Then, I review my day:

Today, was my first visit to the beach on Munjoy Hill, and it hurt to walk the shallow rocky surface. The beach was filled with sail boats and some took off, skimming the surface as if they would tilt.  Two guys swam across to a deserted island. I think I will try to do the same when I return to the beach tomorrow. Today, the freezing cold water got into my ears and made them hurt.

In the bath, I let the water run cold because it has been hot today.  I listen to the gushing water stream from the pipes. I soak longer.  Keep my head under and listen to the gurgle.  I think about the lady who complimented me on my black maillot. "A classic," she said. I also think about sipping Geary Pale Ale at the Portland Lobster Company, where the lobsters customers ordered looked like plastic toys with black beady eyes. The beer was cold and fantastic. I sipped it while looking out at the dock, boats, and condos on the waterway, and I watched touristy charters pull in while filled with excited tourists who saw whales.  I think about the wonderful buzz of the beer and the inspiration it gave me to write this entry.




My memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO