Here

I've been here a year. When I have guests, they ask me whether I have made new friends here. Except for M. (whom I have known for two decades), not.

This week I heard from a bookseller friend who has been reading about Yeats, and it made me think of The Lake Isle of Innisfree. Because, now that she put it in my mind, I can see this: except that I came near the ocean instead of to the sort of place Yeats was (writing as if) yearning for, I did it. I went where I wanted to be and here I am, living alone in the bee-loud glade.

One year and counting, and I'm still not lonely.

Out the window. Dusk.

This post comes with a soundtrack, I suppose. Hamilton Camp's setting of Innisfree. But I can't get a good link to the sound clip, and anyway it doesn't sound the way I remember from forty years ago. (Or perhaps the soundtrack is the surf at Rialto.)