|now candy|

Not surprisingly, I was not blessed with great intellect while writing posts at the beach, a few beverages into the day.

We came back to the news, brought by a friend, that President Reagan had died. LW and I pretty much said together, "Good for him." The poor man had Alzheimer's and was probably a shell of his former self.

Not to be too flip. Ronald Reagan was my childhood president. I was two when he came into office (no, I don't even begin to remember it) and I was in fifth grade when George Bush was elected. It seemed unreal that anyone else could be President. All my memories of President Reagan are good. Our house hold wasn't particularly political (or maybe I just wasn't paying attention), and to me Reagan was the perfect president. He was stately but not out of reach. Nancy Reagan seemed to mean so well, also.

I remember us competing for the Presidential Fitness Award in school, probably in third and fourth grades. I cared. I cared because I thought President Reagan cared. I imagined that if I was fit enough, President Reagan would hand me the award personally. I knew this probably wasn't the way it worked, but I thought of him when they counted our little pull-ups.

Yes, I've since learned that some of President Reagan's policies were about as realistic as Joan River's face, but I still have this unfounded fondness for him.

I was especially sad to learn he had Alzheimer's. That's when he died. Before that, I envisioned him being a former President who actually did something. Sure, I didn't see him working for the greater good in the ways of Jimmy Carter. But I hoped he would be a steady voice, even if in the wings, that sounded of character, good will, and reason. He was cheated by Alzheimer's. We lost a voice, even if from a Republican that brought us great debt and sketchy economics. I'd like to think the Republican Party wouldn't be the self-serving, shake-thier-hands-and-steal-their-money, for profit bunch of honorless puppets they are today. Yeah, it's a naive hope, but I was a naive kid when President Reagan forged the standard in my head of what a President should be. Forget the finer points of his policies. Some of us may have gotten too smart to admit it, but President Ronal Reagan is the original President for us.

May Ronald Reagan rest in peace. May his body relieved, his spirit freed, and his family be a peace.

(Orginally written 5 June 2004, Saint George's Island, MD.)

Three couches.
One love seat.
Two couples.
Three singles.
One guitar,
four books with readers,
one lap top and one observer.

Two are buzzing over cheese in the kitchen.
Three playing cards outside on the long and open and
lovely porch (scared from Isabelle but more perfect
somehow for it) and three making necklaces and and
earrings.

Julie's voice is beautiful.

(Orginally written 5 June 2004, Saint George's Island, MD.)

Going to the beach for the weekend requires a bathing suit.
Doesn't matter that it might be raining all weekend,
or that it might not reach 80 degrees because, well,
I'm not in Florida any more.

And forget the water. I have no idea how cold it is.
I don't even want to know. But I know it's colder than 70.

Even so, coming back with a trophy tan is for
some reason fun and important.
Even just for myself.
Even though it's not healthy.
It's more justified since now
I wear SPF 30 even when I run
over lunch.
This is different.

This is the _beach_.

Yes. I left H&M Wednesday night victorious
with a bathing suit that my ass did not completely
hang out of (thank god for the popularity of the
"boy short") and a very white, very summer, very
crisp pair of short pants and linen halter.

I did not work out for six months over winter.
When I was in Pittsburgh
I seemed to be another version of myself.
Similar with some basic recognizable traits
of Self, but very different.
It was as though I had lost several years of
personal development, while simultaneously
introspecting to the point of growth.

Whatever. Regardless, I did not work out
for six months.
No physical activity.
I lived off of cereal, frozen pizzas,
and apples & peanut butter.
And pop tarts.

The only relevance this has is that,
despite the six months of sloveness,
my two months of getting back into shape
has paid off.
In spades, apparently, if the mirror isn't lying.
It can only get better.

It's bizarre.
My ass ripples and giggles with every
step I take across the locker room at the gym,
but in the mirror at the beach, with my bathing
suit built for twenty year olds,
no jiggle.

Suddenly, today, no giggles.

Life is good.

(Originally written 5 June 2004, St. George's Island, MD.)

My glass is sweaty and the ice is melting.
It puts a sense of urgency to finishing it.

I had walked into the kitchen right after the blender stopped,
nice boy I was talking with after breakfast
was tasting what the blender blended.
Handed it to me.

"Needs sugar," I said.
His eyebrows raised, "Sugar? Didn't think of that."
"It's what makes the frozen mixers good.
This was just after we discovered the bagged ice
right in front of the office.
A good thirty yards away.

So, yes. I just finished the tasty drink.
We had quite a few rounds, that may have been the last of it.
The fresh pineapple and fresh coconut are gone.

Yeah, so I'm blonde now.
Full on, very very blonde.
Starkly so.
It's why I didn't get here until
2:00 last night. And I love it.
I have strong urges to have a
predominately white wardrobe now.
I had this tendency starting a few weeks ago,
but it's urgent now. The white cubano shirt
and white short pants I'm wearing are, to me,
stunning and I want more white clothes.

Maybe it's the commitment that you sign up to with white.
You sign up to not be a slob. To not sit on dirty seats
and not lean against dirty counters.
Wiping your hands on your pants is prohibited.
Unless they are just wet with water.
That's OK.

No internet at the beach,
as it should be.

I hope there is never internet at the beach.

So the following posts were written at the beach
(yes, I brought the lap top),
but posted when I got back.