FOGHORNS, EQUIPMENT

A strange sound as I slept last night, waking me, somewhat gently, several times: foghorns. How far away from the harbor/East River/Atlantic Ocean am I? Not very as it turns out. I'm the red dot there. And although I go under and near the East River all the time, I rarely actually see it. I usually see it on Saturday mornings as I drive across the Brooklyn Bridge to go to therapy. That's one of the bummers of driving, you can't just enjoy the scenary, particularly when you are driving around Manhattan. Ker-azy.









The fog still hung when I got out of bed, but higher, so that visibility was fairly normal in this immediate vicinity. As the foghorns continued, slowly, throughout the day, the water must have still had limited visibility. Melinda and I walked the loop in the park where it was only misty. As I forgot to grab my cell phone, there was no opportunity for me to record.

Well, the heat is on full bore again. The humidifier is cranked high and I suppose it makes some difference. I might need to go forage for food just to get out of the stuffy apartment. There's enough complaining present in these ... pages? missals? missives? musings? I will endeavor to keep them at a minimum.

My copy of Robert McKee's Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and The Principles of Screenwriting was sitting on my (now too cluttered to work there) dining room table. I opened it to peruse as I was eating my breakfast. Part 1 opens with this quote

Stories are equipment for living. - Kenneth Burke

Yeah. Telling what story that I can right now. Figuring out how to use this SallyAnne/equipment (highly idiocyncratic). I'll admit that little feels better about it at the moment, but perhaps this is just the getting used to it phase. I'll be flying any day now.