I’d like to write this summer. I discarded the list of goals and resolutions I made out of habit. Those hyper-organized lists of disassociated items don’t translate well to real life. I hope some of the ideas stick, though: I’ll read and travel for sure with my job and my already-made plans, and besides that I’d like to write something other than letters and journals and to run a lot. Two goals? I can manage that. Occasionally in life, particular resolutions stick. You’re never sure which ones will last, but maybe these could.
That photo up there is how I think of my summers: I think a lot and look at trees a lot, as always; I’m in Seattle, which I like very much; and dinners are interesting and weather is beautiful. That’s from last summer. I took pizza from Delancey out to my aunt’s back yard. It was left over from a night with olives, prosciutto, pizza, and Molly Moon’s balsamic strawberry. I had had my ice cream cone in the parked car, sitting on the corner of my seat with my feet out on the sidewalk. Ice cream cones are, I think, meant to be eaten at least partially outdoors.
Summer has, I guess, properly begun. I’ve been in and out, not home for more than two days yet, but I’ve begun my summer activities: I’ve made one batch of biscotti and one of ice cream (Bi-Rite’s salted caramel), two freezing midnight jumps into a lake, one long scenic drive, and one high stack of books I’ve already begun. I turned twenty today. That’s something.