A collection of thoughts scrawled in my Chautauqua notebook over the years:
• The dogs of Chautauqua: Folks seem to favor the tiny ones. The little guys that hardly stretch the leash, the ones that yelp incessantly when strangers approach.
• Heard On The Way To The Amp: "I'm fine with leftovers." "I think the ladies have adopted a pecking order." "Where are we going, Bob?" "She was sure that the cat was dead." "I want ice cream."
• View from the third floor porch on Miller Avenue, the Republican flag flying in the breeze:
• When people walk here, very often they are looking around – at the gardens, the homes, the trees.
• The dark burgundy shirts over black bottoms, first the five Hispanic women, their voices carrying the rapid staccato of speech I cannot understand. The couple carefully hugging the sidewalk, carrying their tote bags. Woman with gray hair and new bright pink sneakers, laces snowy white. Woman cradling the long stalks of glads, colors just showing themselves at the tips. Man carrying glads upside down. Thin couple running, the sound of a phlegmy cough. Carefully coiffed blonde hair "my natural color" and a front fanny pack.
• Starling landing on striped awning casts shadows from his feet. The gossamer threads of spiders reflect in the sunshine.
• Thoughts On Opening Night: Jay Leno, overstuffed. Uncomfortable tittering in the audience. Large and broad applause for anti-Trump jokes. Little girl sitting on floor, face illuminated by the small device in her hand. This is a new normal, unheard of even five years earlier.
Random thoughts from various years:
• The rain held off until most had made their way back. What was once a colony of little cottages has become a colony of posh second homes, gleaming white kitchens with granite counters, carefully tended and mulched gardens, air conditioners humming in the background.
• There's a guy down on the floor of the amp who looks like Greg Eldred. The same baldness pattern, his Hawaiian shirt exhibiting difficulty stretching over his belly, the big glasses, horn rimmed.
• A chipmunk dashes between the bikes resting in the rack by the lake. A bird calling from the treetops, hidden from sight but identified by its call. The small plant thrusting hopefully up through the mulch.
• Sound: Faraway cars, boat on the water, people talking, words indistinguishable. Birds chirping, thrumming, calling back and forth; airplane; splash as a duck occasionally lands, seeming graceful and at the same time awkward. The rhythmic sound of a runner on the street behind me. More running, this one faster than the last.
• Sight: Fog enveloping the lake. Sky milky, like when you wash a carton of milk that has gone sour down the kitchen sink drain. The empty lifeguard's chair facing out toward the lake. A purple flower grows in the place where the concrete walls meets the grass.
• Someone has just walked through the grass and makes her way to the dock, her sandals making the boards protest as she makes her way to the end. She sits, her legs straight out in front of her.
• I just walked into the Octagon Building and tried to remember my 16-year-old self, an aspiring writer. Alas! It looked unfamiliar. Maybe the long pinch-pleated draperies were familiar with their nubby texture and style reminiscent of the dining room drapes in my family's home.
