Under the Harvest Gibbous Moon, Or, Beer

After a couple days on Block Island, I started saying things like, “A few days ago when we were here…”

Yeah.

I stayed with the Welder in his family house, which was built in either the 1880s or 1890s. No one got rid of any of the original furniture over the years, which has left each room elegant and sparse, with dark wood lines, moldings and iron. And ghosts. (I just made that up. Maybe.)

Enter.
This is a photo of a wooden doorknob, etched with rings along its loop. Scattered throughout the house are old glass bottles and century-old spools for sewing. In a closet with excess antiques I found a small pewter arm.

Here is a photo of the bedroom I slept in. On the wall is a photo of the same room, dated 1902. Everything—everything—is exactly the same now as it was then. (Minus the sleeping man with the crazy eyes; his fast-talkin’ father; his serene blond mother and for now, for these few days, the girl reporter who has landed here from outer space. Or Brooklyn.)


Said Man With the Crazy Eyes can be seen here. (Kinda. That would be the tip of his hair somewhere there.)


That was the wrought-iron bed frame. Elegant. Spindly.

Mellow in the layers of lush flora as I did. (Or do the best you can while staring at it on this screen.)


In other news, I watched a man eat barbeque by bending over a display counter at his own store and shoving his face in all its saucy brown slime. Then he sampled my pasta. By bending over and shoving his face in it. The end product of this orgiastic demonstration was a nearly bare animal rib sticking out of a fleshy watermelon slice like the most disgusting erection ever raised.

Aside, my editor just said to me: “I could drown in the details of my existence. Just drown in them.”

“Good luck with your craziness!” I shouted to her as she left. “Night!”