It was dark. The fog lingered, moving slowly, thick like a shroud. I was leaning against the lamppost in a pool of light. No sound, not even a dog's bark. I was chilled from the moisture, searching, waiting. Waiting for what? Certainly not Godot. Anticipation, then in the penetrating fog emerged my Muse. Obviously I yearned for inspiration and guidance.
Ah the night time is the right time, if only I could clear my mind for sleep. But alas with eyes closed, in bed, my mind is most fecund. It sorts, files, congeals, coagulates, separates, adheres, creates, reminisces, wishes, formulates, stratigizes, connives, hopes and eventually dreams. Yet to my utter chagrin upon awakening, I have no recollection of my great plans, capturing at most a rare nugget here and there.
Sunday morning was typical. It began like so many, in the mist at Lincoln Park. Our golf club was holding one of it's championships. Contesting a golf competition at Lincoln has the disturbing affect of, not only vying for supremacy over fellow members, but vying to out battle the decrepit course conditions and inclement weather. Needless to say a fine golf shot is extremely satisfying faced with these adverse factors. Trying to maintain poise and conviviality throughout is our noble cause. Sometimes it works. I finished third, hurrah!