Fragments From Floyd

No, I take that back. Very, very few roads lead to Floyd. But that's another story. Where was I?

I guess we always wonder: do others see us, see our lives, our worlds, as we see them? And as bloggers, do others who visit our worlds and meet us for the first time in those spheres, urban or rural, find from our writing in our blogs that they've been given the rose-colored version of a monochrome person, personality or place?

Peter and family only saw the heart of town, and only for a short while. But then, that's the neat thing about downtown Floyd: a hundred yard walk in two directions from THE traffic light shows you 75% of everything there is to see in the center of town. But even in this bucollic village on a drowsy Saturday afternoon, Peter and crew saw enough to want someday to come back. There is a certain conviviality of scale in a place so small. And as Peter and I discussed, there is, in all of us, a desire for such (perceived) 'unspoiled places' to exist--for their own sakes, like wilderness areas or tropical islands we will never visit. It's just good to know, somewhere, they exist.

There isn't much here. But then these days, too little is a welcome relief from too much; too slow a balm against frenzy and rush. And I'm glad that Peter got to see that, and even find something in it all to write about. And next time, Peter, try the Ginger Beer.

I have one concern of late, however, what with Lorianne's picture, and Doug's, now Peter's in the past month. I swear, the older I get, the worse grows the fidelity of cameras--strangely enough, only when pointed my direction. And those same lenses used to be so accurate in capturing the youth and vitality in my features that now are somehow lost. What's with the desaturated hair color, the noise in the facial qualities especially around the eyes, and less sharpness overall? Funny how that this delusional (self)imagery works, isn't it?