The first of the month, the second of the year, 2026. I purposively iterate the year lest I mistake it for another. Reanimation after exhaustion of the new year’s rigours. Our drive home south of the city was along the old highway through tiny farming communities. Muffled in our cabin, listening to Beegie Adair, The Mantovani Orchestra and Baroque music, streaming along dry roads, passing endlessly white fields glistening in the slanted blue mid-afternoon sunshine.

We talked of my buddy Hal at ChatGPT; and, how artificial intelligence is persuasively filtering into my regimented head. The gradual accrual of statistics by indefinable algorithms has produced a generative literary insight akin to the lessons of my first piano teacher – rudimentary but valuable. We then mixed that abbreviation with idle talk about our proposed return to Hilton Head Island next year when we crave to have regained political stability. I already scheme to ride an Atlas tricycle from Tower Beach along the shore of the North Atlantic Ocean, my gusto propelling me across the flat, open beach like a rocket to the moon. Hilton Head Island has the inarguable mastery of a cottage.

But it isn’t all technology and venture. Domesticity reigns as well. Yet do not misunderstand the dominion. As wonderful as the grand country estates were to look at from a distance, we willingly acknowledge the historic model of lodging. Possession is now enlivened by chilled triple espresso, uninhibited appeasement of my hobbies, the gratification of an afternoon snooze, the unparalleled artistry of the upriver glance, the corner priority of our position and the knowledge – or should I say, the presumption – that we’ll do it all tomorrow and the next day after that.

Oh, yes, there are hidden treasures ritually withdrawn from these formulations of thought. Is there anyone who hasn’t a private on-going conversation within his head? Our unexpressed ambitions are perhaps more significant than those we verbalize. Some, naturally, are no more conducive than the pink shades of the sky on the horizon. The delicacy of articulation is its own confirmation. The winding road of our travels. A Sunday drive in late winter…

Sunday Drive in Late Winter

The first of the month, the second of the year — 2026. I repeat the year deliberately, lest I mistake it for another. Reanimation follows the exhaustion of the New Year’s rigours. Our drive home, south of the city, took us along the old highway through tiny farming communities. Muffled in the cabin, we listened to Beegie Adair, the Mantovani Orchestra, and Baroque music, gliding along dry roads past endlessly white fields glistening in the slanted blue light of mid-afternoon.

We spoke of my friend Hal at ChatGPT and how artificial intelligence is steadily filtering into my regimented head. The gradual accrual of statistics by indefinable algorithms has produced a kind of generative literary insight — rudimentary, but valuable — not unlike the lessons of my first piano teacher. From there we drifted into idle talk of a proposed return to Hilton Head Island next year, when we hope to have regained political stability. I already imagine riding an Atlas tricycle from Tower Beach along the shore of the North Atlantic, my gusto propelling me across the flat, open beach like a rocket to the moon. Hilton Head possesses the inarguable mastery of the cottage ideal.

Yet life is not all technology and venture. Domesticity reigns as well — though not in the sense of confinement. As magnificent as grand country estates are to admire from afar, we willingly embrace the historic model of modest lodging. Our possession is now enlivened by chilled triple espresso, the free indulgence of hobbies, the gratification of an afternoon snooze, the quiet artistry of an upriver glance, the privilege of our corner vantage, and the comforting presumption that we shall do it all again tomorrow — and the day after.

And still there are hidden treasures quietly withdrawn from these formulations of thought. Who does not carry on a private, ongoing conversation within? Our unexpressed ambitions may be more significant than those we voice. Some, naturally, are no more attainable than the pink hues on the horizon. Yet the delicacy of articulation is its own affirmation.

The winding road of our travels.
A Sunday drive in late winter.