2 July 1:13

It smells like India today: metallic, ocean, diesel. The night is wet. Joe and some woman have stepped off the docks in some small dinghy; V. and I have motored up the East River on a bottle of red and a bottle of Prosecco and a lot of deep talk. I am in the right room, as V. was saying...the room in which everyone is interesting. At the very least, we are certainly a bunch of stubborn personalities.

3 July 20:02

It's the evening of the Fourth of July, and the day has crawled by as slow as can be. I've been marveling all day at this effect, which seems to be a product of grey skies, slow swells flashed with the greenish-white underbellies of fish, and the sound of distant thunder. These effects—tricks of the lighting, or perhaps of our suspension in wood and glass on water—make time seem to still and slow. Almost nothing has happened.

Still, the mockingbird has flown from Denis' spreader—it always rests on the starboard side—to the top of the building behind the marina, and back to the corner of the southerly building on Warren Street, all the while asserting its mad little song with a voice far bigger than its tiny body. I hear it in the evening, early in the morning, and even in the middle of the night, strangely—it seems to have no scruples about keeping regular hours. The duck couple is, at present, preening on the eastern dock, unperturbed as the marina is rather empty this evening. One of the Israeli couple's children is squalling. Thick cloud cover amplifies the sounds of airplanes overhead, which I've mistaken for thunder all day. In fact, I might have made the trip to the beach in late afternoon had I not felt sure the promised thunderstorms were on their way. Instead, I've been here, mastering the great art of wasting time, and understanding that we are, here, in a different space, where life flows more gracefully, more gently, and with great aesthetic depth.

As the sun peeks out just in time for sunset, the clouds stamp a light sheen of iridescent peach on the crepe surface of this harbor. There are so many ways to perceive the effects of light and shadow on water. I suppose that this is one of the many pastimes that one must devote oneself to here. The impulse to read in bed on a rainy morning is honorable; the decision to wait out the day in the marina, doing little else, is wise.

There are many ways. Krys and Denis are both hard at work on their engines. V. has gone off somewhere, probably to the city for social calls. Most everything else is quiet; I'll practice and then sleep early, hoping for an early start tomorrow morning. This damp day will keep me humidified for some time.