Sunday, August 25, 2002

Having the intense irrational reality of a dream

is how Merriam Webster's New Collegiate dictionary defines surreal. That's a more apt descriptor of events of late than their Riverside's edition, which denotes it as a something resembling the grotesque. While admittedly smacking of the bizarre, (hand-dancing gay guys, shimmying couches, and a girl with an S-shaped back), not to mention too few degrees of separation, there was absolutely and fortunately nothing grotesque conjured. Not that I can remember anyway. The margaritas were weak, but hardly grotesque.

There may be a case for better mooring, however. Aside from the house and kid, the center that holds--or is supposed to--proves elusive; I'm occasionally found on the edge of something much too deep.

And I like it there.

The tide laps me back, alas. Quite unlike yesterday's, today's butt-crack of dawn found me walking the dog in Town Park alongside a mom pushing a bunchkin-bouncing stroller.

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