This is the time of year when I want to move to Alaska or Iceland or Siberia - somewhere cold, somewhere without humidity and traffic and overcrowded subways full of people who dno't bathe and most of all, without sushi. There is nothing worse than the smell of the piles of garbage in front of the four sushi restaurants in a one block radius from my apartment. No, it doesn't smell like the ocean or the canneries of my childhood and no, it doesn't remind me of the fish stall at the Pike Place Market or the waterfront in Baltimore or Newport or Astoria.  And no, there's nothing good about that smell or about the fact that they've opened another sushi place down the street making it five now and, of course, this one's also a sake bar which means even more drunk sushi eaters throwing up on my block. Sometimes it seems like I'm back in New Orleans in the middle of Mardi Gras but really, it's just the East Village in August. I dream of quiet streets without rotting garbage. I dream of sunkissed trees rising up to jagged mountains. I dream of clean air and no traffic, of no crowds of people who don't have the good sense to cover their bodies when going outside.  I dream of a yard with a chair or a hammock and hours of uninterrupted reading; the only sounds: a dog barking chasing butterflies, the warm purr of my cat asleep on my belly, the creak of the hammock, wind in the trees, an airplane far off on the horizon.  Maybe there's a river at the edge of the yard, maybe the hard goes gradually down into rock then sand then ocean. Being so close to the ocean makes me think of storms so let's make it a river instead, but a river could flood so let's make the river at the bottom of a steep hill and the hard on top of the hill safe from harm, the hammock swinging gently but well-secured between two sturdy trees. And the book is not something I have to read but something I want to read and full of interesting plot twists and compelling characters and perfectly formed sentences. 

(c) 8/8/2009