I’m in a sort of Cape Cod Fireplace Psychosis now. I can’t think of anything else.

I came in at the tail end of Cape Cod as a sort of summer sinkhole of tourists and a desolate spit of sand, fish, and cranberries the other three seasons of the year. I remember distinctly walking along the little aretes between the bogs to get from my grandmother’s tiny cottage to the little local market. The bogs are all houses now, and there’s a supermarket there instead of a tiny store.

Everybody lives everywhere now. I don’t begrudge anybody the things I want for myself. But it was piquant to summer among the scrub pines and sit in the old houses by the fire in the early evening, cast away from the scrum of everyday workaday life.