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It's impossible to show or explain what it felt like to just look out on the lake for miles around you. This panoramic is how I tried. 

I don't understand what the appeal is but a few bees spent more than an hour buzzing around my right Keen sandal, sucking the devil-knows-what out of it.

At 11:59pm, after tracking the last of the beats for the Songo track, code-named Calliope until something better comes along, I decided to call it quits.

I would keep going if I could.

I tried.

And here, at the end of all things, I took a last dip in the water, now a comfortable 62 degrees. About halfway through the month it was 52 degrees and I can only guess how low it was when I first jumped in.

Paying attention to how your trash piles up is quite an educational experience. Being so far out in the country made pick-up a challenge and I found myself frequently being educated.

Fred came back to pick up his piano today. The low F string, broken before the piano ever arrived at our lakeside location, never recovered.

We did some preliminary cleaning this morning. Many bugs were swept up, much lingering dog hair from the owners amassed, and garbage and recyclables collected and prepared for carrying to the city.

Somewhere between zen, childhood and madness, I've become quite good at skipping stones.

Bryan's folks ventured in to Lodi to take a day off, see the lake, and help haul gear back to NYC.

As madness began to take my mind, 4 days since I last spoke to anyone as Clare and BBS were back in NYC, I felt compelled to venture into the nearby hippie enclave of Trumansburg in search of a chat-up. I'd estimated I'd find a bar, have a drink and talk to whomever was nearby. There was an anti-establishment establishment spoken of frequently by locals and travelers: the Rongovian Embassy to the USA. The name itself suggests a "get away from the man, man" dream of utopian venues for the wayfarer's intoxication and music. I'd later find out that Rongovia was derived from hippie slang for Vietnam, like Vietnam was the wrong way to go, man. 

Surprisingly I was, at times, the singular and solitary person at the bar. Many tourists came and went, some doing shots, most wearing pastels and loafers, few among them staying to drink seriously. The bartender told me that they'd hoped to find food but the Rongovian's kitchen was yet closed. It was being remodeled by the new owners who had reopened the space but 2 months ago. Things here were still coming together, she said.