I think to myself: a general pall of subtle insanity surrounds me. And it is delightful. I don't feel so alone in my head anymore -a dangerous neighbourhood at the best of times and I try not to go in there by myself.
There's this guy. I won't breach his privacy by snapping a picture of him but twice a day he strides busily by my place with an empty large knapsack on his back. He's in his fifties, I would estimate. Someone said he's the mad son of a village elder. He walks "to stop the noise."
Then there's the yacht owner. There are a few around here but this particular guy? He has a little rowboat sitting on the beach in front of my house and there's ALWAYS something wrong with his yacht. It untethers itself. It skews around. The mast falls down. One time it turned right over. The owner is a strange guy. Quite unfriendly. He spends all his time in the rowboat, rowing back and forth to his big boat and fixing something. Tarps, sails, masts, jibs, it's a full time job. And he never sails the thing. But his arms are quite shapely from all the rowing.
Then there's my bird-feeder. Have you ever seen crops inside a bird feeder? Well now you have - take a look.
A miasma of small town lunacy like a mist around me.
I fit right in.