Arrived at the cabin yesterday. It sits on eight acres of hemlock, birch, beech, and tangled vine and fern. C’s brother-in-law showed us the property lines to make sure we don’t get shot by the neighbors. They’re enthusiastic members of the National Rifle Association, and they enjoy target practice. The cabin smells like cedar. The ceiling is three times the height of our apartment. Beavers have chewed some of the logs. There’s a fire pit.
There is no internet here. No cellphone reception either. Picking up a signal requires either a ten-minute hike up a ravine through brambles and thorns that leaves you in the sight-lines of the target-practicing neighbors, or a twenty-minute drive into the nearest town. I’ll drive. This will be good for me, this rare opportunity to short-circuit my compulsive scrolling and refreshing. Each afternoon I’ll head into town for some internet so I can do any necessary emailing and file-sending (and perhaps continue this notebook), then I’ll return to the cabin to work without the distraction of the day’s two-minute hates. We’ll see how long this lasts.
At night the sound of the insects is unholy.
