Identity

I feel like I am very far away from St Petersburg, now, living in a place where I put my baseball cap on backwards, don't wash my hair for days in a row by choice, where I walk on forest paths instead of concrete...

We're sleeping in a tent, cooking in a camper, washing in a lake, walking down to see the sunset every night at Smelt Bay, and eating a lot of spinach salad. The pug toddles around the property, and luckily we have a sawdust covered meandering path between the cabin, which we are getting ready for drywalling, and the camper, where pug spends most of his time watching for stray bits of food to fall his way. I concern myself with important things like "is there any beach glass here on this beach?" or "should I close my eyes while I am lying in the sun, or keep them open?", or, "pass me another beer, would ya?" The pug just looks at me, though, when I say this, and I have to get up and go over to the camper where the Swedish made propane fridge looks after chilling the Argentinian beer that was on sale. Take one out. Put another one in. Adjust my baseball cap. Think about ... nothing.

I realized this morning that I could take my laptop to the power shed across the road and sit on a rock next to a plug and write. But six pileated woodpeckers flew through the yard, and I forgot about writing. I briefly thought about the Russian soul and came up with a blank. The Russian soul? What is?

We are almost out of bread.

I want to build a round domed building on the property. I imagine myself sitting in the middle of it, and I imagine windows all the way around, and rain falling in the middle of winter.

What does it mean, to grade a paper?