John McCaffrey, in the spirit of Thoreau’s grand experiment to live alone in the woods, an experience captured in the seminal book “Walden,” has ensconced himself on his building’s rooftop, where he is communing with natural elements in the hope of finding answers to many of life’s riddles. Here is the second entry in his journal.
July 20, 2012
I wish I was better at keeping up with my writing, but the oppressive heat has melted my keyboard and I am forced to call out my words to a neighbor, a man of four and forty, who has agreed to serve as a “scribe,” so to speak, in return for the promise of vegetables once my garden is ready for harvest. This man (let’s call him Friday, even though today is Wednesday), has assured me he will only write what I say (which is what I said, so let’s hope he wrote it), is a fine chap, tall and handsome, and despite the inability to digest soy or any rhyming food item, such as Bok Choy, is said to be a fun dinner companion and great at parties. He is also partial to moonlit walks on ocean beaches and anything involving Carol Channing. But back to the heat, along with frying my laptop it has had a desultory effect on my relationship with the mourning doves. It was either Machiavelli or Burl Ives who said “Power Corrupts,” and I must say this idea is dead on. For the doves, sensing my dependence on their companionship, will no longer stay for more than a few seconds on the deck unless I ply them with corn feed. Already I am down to only a few handfuls of feed, and fear without it I will be abandoned. Again I rue not having the foresight to purchase suet. Of course, hindsight is 20/20. Perhaps things will get better, the heat will let up, the feed will last, and the mourning doves will like me for me, and not what I can give them. In the meantime, I will remain open and vulnerable, taking in wisdom where I may, and shouting it out for my man Friday to relay to you.