The Last Week of Summer

I can’t say that the past eighteen months have exactly been a bonanza, but for sure we are talking memorable times, which amounts to something as stories only happen to people who can tell them.  Speaking of which, just yesterday a naked man entered a shower in the locker room at the gym where I go daily.  (Yes, of course, he was naked.  But it is important to be clear.  Imagine if I had left that word “naked” out.  Then you might think he had clothing on, which would be confusing, wouldn’t it?)

He had a copy of the third volume of Knausgaard in front of his locker, and when he emerged wet and energetic, moving like a white lab transformed into a person, we talked for a good five minutes about the book.  He is writing a long essay about it for a well known national publication.  He talked about its importance in changing what a novel or memoir can be.

Turned out, of course, that he is a writer.  We shook hands hastily after we had concluded our talk and I moved quickly to exit.  The guy turned out to be the very well known editor of a very well known magazine. Someone whose name I knew.

Somehow this was reassuring.  It’s been a rough week; I’ll take a good conversation any time–not a distraction, but rather the type of rich contact that makes me glad to be human.

Later that same day I returned home to enjoy a very tomato based gazpacho followed by a slow roasted Amish chicken (shipped up by DeBragga; you buy local, I’ll buy quality) with a salad of raw fennel.

Tonight it’s plin from Eataly.

Coincidence?  I think not.

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