Swimming at sunset

Tonight, like a dream. Swimming in the pool at the house I’m watching over for the summer … a man was out fishing in the low tide. He’d rowed up to the sandbar on a small kayak. He threw cast after cast but I never saw him catch anything. I swam. Under the wide open sky, no cage overhead to stop the pine needles from the nearby Australian pines from floating down every now and again.

Nothing between me and sky and clouds and … my lovely osprey. How can a human be so in love? With a bird? But I am. I coo to him (or her) en francais, not caring what the neighbors think. I say, “Bonjour, ma petite. Ne cri pas. My honeybunch.” I’m like a looney-tune. I swim.

Remnants of something — a crab? — left off the side of the pool, where many crane-like, stork-like birds come to scout lizards or perhaps drink the water, one, crazily, even when I was swimming, ventured close.

Pelicans, seagulls, waterfowl of every kind, winging their way back to nests. The pool seems to be directly under their nightly flight path.

Luxuriating in the water. Watching the clouds and loving those moments when the osprey fly in so close over the pool that I feel I could reach them (and I pray they don’t drop any, um, thing … notably that fish in their talons). Every now and again, Mr. (or is it Ms.?) Osprey turns his head to look at me. “I’m not dinner,” I remind him. Their diet is 95% fish, you know. I looked it up.

It’s magic here. On the Intracoastal. Which I’d choose any day over a place on the beach.

I think a woman could find her best self here. Recall the woman she might have left behind while off searching for love and fortune. Recall the woman who isn’t afraid of never being married again. Who doesn’t mind, really, the uncertain future.

Recall the woman who doesn’t give a damn about anything else but the feeling of a light wind coming from the west wrapping around her bare skin as she steps out of the dreamy, warm, water. The air almost cool. The sun, now setting. The fisherman moving back toward his kayak.

It’s easy to do here: remembering who you were, liking who you are, and looking forward to who you yet will be. That’s the magic of this place.

The Buck starts here

If you haven’t seen the new documentary, Buck — I highly recommend it. It sounds like it’s about the horse whisperer and the equine world, but it’s really about life and how our life circumstances do not have to dictate who and what we become. Well, that and also how to treat a horse … which is an awful like how you should treat a human.

Check it out — www.buckthefilm.com.

Holy smokes! They’ve caught Whitey Bulger!!

FBI Nabs Whitey Bulger!!!

I used to hang around the North End of Boston before it got all prettied up and gentrified and yuppified and before the Big Dig and all the “walkable” improvements connecting the NO to the rest of Beantown.

I remember walking under I-93 which goes straight through Boston, through little-used (at the time) tunnel reeking of urine and a bit intimidating with homeless people lining the walls — all just to get to the North End.

I’d go there and hang out at the old caffes where men played chess and you could smoke ’til your lungs gave out. I met more than one made man there back in the days. And though I kept my distance, they were often very protective of me. I was always alone at the caffes, sitting in there all day long, reading, writing, smoking (yes, back then I smoked!), and drinking coffee after coffee. Sometimes they’d let me play chess with them. And often, if a man bothered me or was hitting on me (yes, this did happen to me … back in the day!!), they’d intervene.

Often the serious players in the crime world would come in and just go straight back to the doors that led to a basement meeting place. It wasn’t glamorous; they weren’t sexy (well, one was, but that’s another story), and I knew they were ruthless, bad — for the most part — guys. Not goodfellas by a long shot. But they were always decent to me. Go figure.

Of course, the North End wasn’t exactly Whitey’s hangout. He was a South Boston thug of mythic — and monstrous — proportion. I’m so glad they caught him.

Day with Dad Fuels Lifetime of Security and Love

Father’s Day is Sunday June 19th … hope you enjoy my “Sense and the City” column in today’s Sarasota Herald-Tribune — page 37E for you print readers out there and if you’re an online reader — just click here:

Day with Dad Fuels Lifetime of Security and Love

Here’s a snippet to get you started …with the spectacular, ever-changing view of the water, jumping mullet, and a family of ospreys flying directly overhead, it’s a challenge to look at a computer screen. I just want to watch the world.

Eye-candy for the sophisticated voyeur

A few weeks back, I wrote a column about how “sex sells” and questioned whether women as a group are empowered or disempowered by our culture’s commercialization of female sex appeal. I mentioned, among other examples, pole-dancing at Sarasota fundraisers and the Black Diamond Burlesque troupe that has been sizzling up Sarasota’s sexy factor.

Photo by: Scott Braun Photography