Eastern Promenade, Existential Crises

Little girl tends to go stir crazy. A lot. Which is why I love to hop two feet up the street from my new east end digs and lay out on the huge lawn that is the Eastern Prom. The Eastern Promenade might just be the nicest place in Portland on a sunny day. Sure, you have the ornate architecture and tulip beds on the Western Prom, but for sheer grandeur the E. Prom takes the cake. It's a great spot for people-watching, listening, and my favorite new hobby, seagull- watching. Now seagull-watching seems like a bit of a forced past-time in Portland, and for most a rather dull one. Yet such a familiar and mundane sight entertains me for hours. I find seagulls utterly captivating, and I can't quite explain why. I lounged on a blanket for a good two hours on the grass, book and coffee in hand. It didn't take long for me to befriend one particular seagull who seemed to be lost from the flock. Although I sympathize with my neighbor's suicidal cats, this lost seagull and I were in nothing short of a western-style standoff. Would he dare invade the personal space so neatly marked by the edges of the blanket I laid down? Would I dare provoke that ear-shrilling noise? Our stand-off was quickly interrupted when he saw his home flock up above. The seagull alerted them to his whereabouts with an action that seemed to be the equivalent of seagull dry-heaving. So much for my dramatic encounter with the seagull. I did manage to capture his approach tactics on film though. (Note: I don't mean to be sexist by assuming the seagull is male. If seagulls were human I just feel they'd be cranky old men. The retired kind. The ones who get to take strolls about town all day).

After my seagull friend left me, I did a little juvenile cloud-watching. Laid back, looked up, put some Radiohead on the IPOD and transported myself to the sky. Moving, wispy, big gorgeous clouds lessening the severity of the noonday sun. A friend recently recommended "The Story of B" by Daniel Quinn. I tried reading that too, but for some reason the cold subject matter, a book deeply examining the nature of man, seemed too intellectual for such a simply beautiful day. The weather and scenery were more fitting for transcendental or romantic poetry. Something lusher. Instead, I was stuck with The Phoenix crossword and a book by the author of Ishmael so I abandoned my literary pursuits for the sun and clouds. I am severely dependent upon Vitamin D exposure. I often think I must be a masochist for every Maine winter that doesn't propel me to move to a warmer locale. But those three months of summer bliss almost make up for our torturous winters.

I attempted a couple pages. Quinn went on some tangent about the merits of the Gebusi tribe in New Guinea, being considered completely heathen by Western Society, but free from our societal norms. Free. Free as in run-around-naked, kill-with-no-remorse free. Although nudity and/or homicide would have certainly made this trip to the promenade a memorable one, I had to put the book down then. It was about to induce a dreaded existential crisis. I hear these are usually at least a monthly occurrence in the lives of twentysomething liberal arts grads. But taking in the Promenade pleasantness, I was just too happy to be alive to worry about the big questions. The meaning of life could wait while I laughed at seagulls and soaked up sun. Lots of it. Superficial of me perhaps to be so naively optimistic about a sunny day, but why not? As I read more Quinn, he seemed to want to convey that in many ways life's meaninglessness is what also gives it meaning. Okay. I dig that. Seagulls, meaningless. Sun, meaningless. And yet, both made my day a little more entertaining. I will never stop revelling in sunshine, or appreciating it no matter how meaningless Quinn tells me life is. Existential crisis be-damned!