Here. I was lost in a symphony of swaying trees. Sounds like phantom hooves crashing on the bluff all around. And beyond, the sonorous waves, seal-slick and sun lit.

Perched like a bird, I studied for a time, the trancelike flight of a red-tailed hawk.

After the bluff walk ended, I cut through the vacant golf course. A tilt of earth cupped the sky and the quivering clouds held, then reinvented themselves as slyly as any blue sky bandit would.

The grass mimics the sign--stiff, green and frosty white.

King of rugby? His portrait occupies 60% of an eastern wall in the rugby club house. Sun falls all over his face. He's much warmer than I am right now.

Why JJF was ever called Basketball Jones, by a homeless man some fifteen years ago, while walking up Haight Street is beyond me. I was there. It didn't make any sense (although JJF was known to play basketball and could run faster than any other player, despite his daily intake of one pack plus--Camel's...unfiltered). But it stuck and I won't let it go.

Joe's Pizza!! Joe's! Joe's offers a gluten free pasta option. Sadly, I've been forced against my will to go this route and thought for sure, that the only breadless option at Joe's was going to be an iceberg salad, with the crutons kicked off. I was wrong and very happy for it. It was great.

A story...

JJF once ordered an In & Out burger and had the nerve to ask me to rush back into line and demand that they hold the special sauce. Reason--he claimed he was a vegan and couldn't tolerate the mayonnaise. Of course I refused. And while we ate, he complained the entire time, that the mar of mayo was destroying his strick veganism. Oh, Basketball...

No complaints last night--just JJF insisting that any photos I take, showcase him with booze. I tried. Most came out too poor to post.

JJF wanted badly, to know the story of Joe's, Joe. It's one I don't know. We decided to come up with our own. This shot of JJF is him, brainstorming. A very serious story, according to his brow.

Summer weather continues in early fall. Outside is the only place to be. It looks like this at 6:30 a.m

And this at 6:45

From Wallstreet to...

Yes, exactly what he said. Mr O can charm any finger into sapphire. When he's not modeling, dancing, singing, or climbing into the estate case, he's laughing, mimicing a co-worker's depravity, or shopping online for skin care products, which he has delivered to the store.

At lunch, he often orders a burger. He only likes it well-done, and always says rare by accident when placing his order. Another call is made. These mistakes and his many streaks of genius, make him my favorite person to work with. Next to my other favorite.

Empty and quiet now, the streets. The leaves are busy falling into formation on the sidewalks and weaving scarves to keep the cobblestones warm.

It looked and smelled exactly like Fall today. Only nature was running a fever. Her forehead hot and steamy. A June bug.

I've watched this barn change in color since my arrival. It grows more beautiful with age. Just like people.

No wind to issue a kiss on the widow's walk. But plenty of champagne and oysters atop the house, and the harbor view with still sails like paper hats in the distance, makes me feel like Monica Vitti in L'Avventura--before she disappears.

I caught the single hint of sun today around one and the flowers, if for a moment, stood from their downward slope--from death to nope.

Nantucket has no shortage of wealth or silver skies in the summertime. It's been wet-hot and colored like mouse since Wednesday. Expensive people roam the streets, while I traverse the harbor on my paddleboard. And that sits fine with me, while I stand. I can't stand the crowds, but I'm deeply in love with everything else. Early morning and late night swims have me spinning. And myriad treasures are found in the small things--the local man with metal piping (salvaged from a kitchen sink) in his knee, the statue of liberty in miniature crowning a rooftop in town and this blue door. Who could ask for anything more? Me. And many others. For now, this piece of paradise finds me content.

A few weeks ago, I was ferrying a feeling that I can only liken to being electrocuted, while submerged in a tubful of jello. I don't feel this way now. The muted shocks have been replaced by elation over catching up with old friends, sailing, perfecting watercolor baleen, watching yellow finches and cardinals create atomic tangerine, night swimming, long runs in the moors and soaring temperatures.

Last night at a gallery event, with Two Weeks pivoting in my mind, I, too, pirouetted and crashed into a soap star. It was my bag that actually met his body with a blow; a huge tote bag brimming with new purchases, including several pairs of shoes and a heap of books--easily a quarter of my body weight. He lost his balance, lurched forward and fell short of toppling me in return. After which, the soap opera star delivered the following line ' I'm so sorry, it's all my fault.' Being sick of saying sorry, when I'm really not, I let him accept the blame and gently offered that he be more careful next time.