Yesterday Jack and I drove back from the Rainforest Retreat. It had, uncharacteristically, finally stopped raining. The retreat was a satisfying experience; I wrote 6,500 words (a paltry amount compared to many others). I got to have dinner or chat with friends: Jim Van Pelt, Patrick Swenson, Brenda Cooper, Louise Marley. I won four games of chess against Bob Brown and lost two. I got to see the world's oldest spruce tree, 1,000 years old and 58 feet in circumference. That tree stood there during the Crusades, the Renaissance, two world wars, and the birth of Facebook. I took no picture: It was raining.
Now tomorrow I fly to Buffalo to see my family and to -- finally! -- sell my house. It was on the market 16 months, and I am selling it for less than I paid for it, but at least I was able to find a buyer. I had had visions of it just sitting there unsold for a thousand years, during more renaissances and more wars and the birth of who-knows-what form of social networking.
A study quoted on TV last night: People with huge numbers of Facebook friends experience more anxiety and social tension than those with either a small number or no Facebook presence at all. Evidently all that information can be difficult to keep up with, creating anxiety. Or something. (Possibly related note: The spellcheck on Blogger does not recognize "Facebook." It gives me "Forsook.")
It is snowing in Buffalo. I cannot escape precipitation.