It isn’t the most inspiring undertaking to consider moving to a retirement residence – a project which at the present time enthrals a couple whom we know. On the other hand it represents a prolonged evolution. Though addressing this and similar progressions is less animated than Darwinian theory of organic transformation, the view of it as utter declension catastrophizes the scheme. Not unexpectedly the inevitability of such change promotes an element of gusto in matters of currency until the irreversible necessity arises. I begin by employing the opportunity as one of reflection – perhaps an indulgence designed to ignore the ultimate doom of my future. I make no apology for the wantonness. This and Key Lime pie are excusable by my measure!
I feed my shameful obsessions by listening to the monotonous but tranquillizing chords of Ludovico Einaudi. The glaring sun melts me to recollection of Sea Pines on Hilton Head Island adjacent a rogue rosemary bush by an alligator pond between the Ocean and a vast marsh on which tall sea grasses undulate like a mirage in the late afternoon.
In the blazing sun I am become a dried and burnished leaf on the sand. There is barely a particle of water remaining within me. I am determined to transform my carcass to copper brown in the sun under the blue dome. The wind off Sarasota Bay soothes the gathering injury. I am a field player committed to the game, uncaring of the scars!
Little Donnie Trump is alone in his sandbox surrounded by the newer and best ever walls to keep people out. No one wants to play with Donnie Trump anymore. He’s toxic! His condition has overtaken him and poisoned the air about him. The erstwhile unspoken psychology is now inescapable. His is more than Daedalus or egotism.
The sun has moved. I swim in the pool, diving like a porpoise. So deeply the implant in my upper jaw resonates. There is time left to lay in the sun, to be warmed again. It’s Saturday. A young family explores the property. What will they have for dinner? Where are they from? When will they go home?
The yachts in the slip appear transfixed, immobile in spite of the northerly wind. Jack – the blond haired child in the pool – proclaims his superiority, his triumphant youth. His dominion is unsurpassable. The pool belongs to him!
The ritual cycle to Bayfront Park today was perfunctory. I hadn’t the energy. Nor was I unable to resist stretching the shtick to Bradenton Beach. The modest drop in temperature had frozen the ambient activity correspondingly. It was a convenient day to enact leisure, to contemplate the encroachment of Leap Year.