Yesterday evening found me with an embroidery hoop in my hand, embellishing a skirt that I'd had sitting on my desk for about five months. When I finished the skirt, I picked through my wardrobe trying to find other clothes that needed decoration, but nothing seemed right. Instead, I altered a dress I have that wasn't tight enough. I was almost done when the needle on my sewing machine broke.
I guess I was on a roll. I'm not sure why, all of a sudden, I felt the urge to read a book or create something. "Doi, Kara. You don't write anymore because you don't read!" I guess I knew that. So I'm going to start reading some fiction.

I don't know why I suddenly felt productive last night. Could it be that my little trip to the Chincoteague rejuvenated something in my mind? "I like Chincoteague..," I often tell my mom, "but I just prefer the mountains, the woods..."
"That's how I was when I was your age," she has said to me.
On Saturday, I stood in the ocean, submerged up to my shoulders, letting the swelling waves pull me around just a little bit. The ocean is a frightening beast. I only ever go out just so far, but always know I could be swallowed whole just the same.
When I was a child, I would spend the entire day at the beach in the water. I would come in for a sandwich and then go right back out there. When I'd lay down for bed at night, and close my eyes, I'd still feel like my body was bobbing up and down in the waves. I loved that weird feeling, my confused equilibrium failing to re-adjust.
This beach trip, like most good times in my life lately, doesn't have any crazy happenings or plot twists. No drunken antics, bizarre encounters, or risky situations. My brother showed up with two friends. They talked about Harry Potter, drank beer, did push ups, and bought crabs. I ate a crab. Almost everyone else ate a lot of crabs.
We went to the carnival. I had a lousy snow cone, and a lousier crab cake. I got on a ride with my brother and he screamed my ear off. Like the urban assholes we are, we all marveled at the array of trashy white people. There were about four black people there, one of whom provided the best quote of the weekend.
When my brother and I were waiting for a ride, a girl said "these rides are a real adrenaline rush!," to which a woman replied, "That's what it feels like every day, waking up black." If she always hangs out at places like Chincoteague, I guess that's probably true.
I need to go down to that house way more often. I say that every year.
I have a lot of mosquito bites. My hair still has salt in it. My face is covered in freckles. The weekend went by too fast. I'm back at work and thinking about what I can embroider.