Sunday always comes too fast. Even when the weekend is moving at a mellow pace, its end date comes quickly. There's only so much one can get done and yet we try to accomplish a lifetime of things in two days. Some of us succeed, exhausted at the start of a new week pining for another 48-hour block for time to relax. We end up living for the weekends whether we want to or not.
There is a novelty gift company, Quotable Cards, and they once printed a greeting card that said something to the effect of how we should live each day as if it were a little life. If each day were a new beginning, a new reality (far more entertaining than say the movie Groundhog Day) it might change our perspective of what our place is in it. How can we live each day based on this philosophy? It seems simple enough: spend the time with people who bring you joy and love, engage in activities that inspire and motivate, enjoy your surroundings no matter how simple or complex, involve yourself in the world around you--just one random act of kindness can move mountains.
It is late, I should be asleep. I've almost been awake for 24 hours but my mind is not quiet enough for slumber. My eyes grow weary but my fingers are hard-pressed to type. Years ago when my writing practice was disciplined, the flow was easy to attain. Nowadays it takes an effort to commit my words and thoughts to the page, even though once I start it's hard to imagine that it was a challenge.
Kristin and I have been talking about getting back to the beach--with just a few more weekends left (most of them planned already) to the summer, we have to be more diligent. The sand was solid from yesterday's rain but the wind's velocity swept it onto everything in sight. We try to choose a Zen space for our blanket not too far from the lifeguard but we attract noise and distraction like a positive to a negative end of a magnet. The only respite to the boom box and harsh Soprano-like voices is the sea. Today was refreshing, but despite a multitude of sandbars the undertow remained strong, and the storm had chilled the usually tepid August bathwater.
We met up with Luiz for dinner in Long Island City at Bella Via, a decent neighborhood bistro though I'm glad it's not in my neighborhood. The tortellini in broth was al dente, the peas slightly frozen. The coal-fired pizza wasn't as crisp as we had hoped, the cappuccinos flat. The air conditioner overzealous. I vaguely remember visiting Larissa when she lived here, and how adamant she was about not eating at Bella Via (this is before the LIC's rebirth); their reputation has sustained itself after all these years. I don't think I'll go back.
Kudos to the brave soul's creativity in importing sand from the Jersey shore and for the idea storm to host a weekly outdoor dance party on the East River. The crowd was hard to define--had Manhattanites shipped themselves over in a taxi, or were they hipsters from nearby trendy Brooklyn 'hoods or perhaps the local residents buying property in luxury condos? It didn't matter really because here in this open air space with with a fantastic view of Manhattan DJs dueled their vinyls and iPods (as part of Turntables on the Hudson). Harry's Water Taxi Beach Party presented a safe, outdoor environment to dance for pure enjoyment. No pressure to drink or toke (though the burning incense hid any sort of evidence for the latter), revelers got their groove on, the plywood floors and on the sandy faux beach. All for a mere $3 (+$ if you had beverages).