The Sheets

I’m sweating lightly, taking a breather after a fierce game of ping pong. Having lost the last two matches, I’m reminded of how competitive I am; moans and curses always escape when a shot goes wild. Somehow, I care.

That attitude is arguably good for ping pong and bad for writing. On a day that the sentences come haltingly, I feel like I’m down ten points and the buzzer is about to sound (sorry, switched to a basketball metaphor). If I’m not winning, I’m losing.

Luckily, there are horses and groundhogs milling around the field just beyond my studio. They spend all day doing adorable Youtube video things: getting in a horse-head fight for water, rummaging and waddling, etc. When I go on walks, the sky doesn’t stop. All of those are good for calming down my inner coach, yelling “Get your head in the game, Sonnenberg!” Somebody should give that guy a Gatorade and tell him to sit down. Does he even have a job here? Who is that guy?

In other news, I really love the sheets here. They are ancient and soft, like those at my late grandmother’s house a few hours south of here. Probably it’s how all sheets feel when they’ve been dried in a dryer. But that’s a funny thing, I find, about living away from the States and visiting: the familiar seems familial. Although I also find this supposed knowability confusing: recognition without comprehension. For example, walking along a stretch of paved country road today, trucks blowing by, I recognized all of it without grasping any of it. Or, to put it another way: I can affect a Southern accent but I don’t have a car.