Everybody told me that I would miss New York. I worried about it, perhaps too much. It might have kept me there longer, the worrying. I suppose it is like many other places. You miss small things about it but it is not like a person. You do not miss the totality of it. At least that has not happened to me yet. NYC is most certainly a totality, the very thing that so many people seem to love about it. I do not long for the city yet, though I am really starting to miss some of the people there.
I haven't had any sinus problems since I've been in Sonoma.
There are little things that I have been trying to catalogue about this valley, to describe its beauty. It is difficult. There is so much to see, so much to remember. The mind wanders freely with the hum of the road, it is difficult to find the path back to the thing seen, the experience felt.
Driving home just after dusk from Marin County yesterday the sky was overcast, a first. Three times during the drive I questioned whether I was still on the right road. The clouds making it all seem so much less familiar, so ominous and foreign. The hills seemed unusual and mysterious. The foreignness coming from an inability to judge exactly where the hill stopped and where the sky started, an almost unconscious knowledge lending familiarity.
When I looked carefully I could tell, but the easy sense of place had disappeared.
I wonder what it will be like to return to New York. I wonder when.
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