Back at camp just in time to make coffee and bring everything inside for the morning downpour—and sure enough, here it comes. I take my Zoloft, roll up the sleeping bags, wipe Beau’s feet and bring him inside, hopefully to curl up and snooze. I bring in the coffeemaker, onto what I call my ‘front porch’—a little space between the opening flap and the zippered panel that closes off our sleeping quarters. Then, in the spirit of not-gonna-let-it-get-me-down, I set up an extra bedroll as a backrest on my air mattress, open two umbrellas and prop them just inside the flap, stretch out my legs onto my ‘porch’ and voilà—my office. Coffee is set on an ‘end table’ made of two stacked plastic boxes within my reach, and as long as I follow one of my own reminders, “Don’t do anything stupid”, I’m set for several hours.
As the rain persists in a maddening let-up-then-let-‘em-have-it pattern, last night’s voices are now grim and grumpy. Kids whine and cry and parents make desperate attempts to amuse them.
I’m over it. I don’t even care about getting wet, as long as I have my computer, hot coffee, a pain au chocolat and an internet connection, I’m happy. Maybe it’s as simple as switching off your expectations, in this case a sunny day. It ain’t gonna happen—not ‘til Wednesday, at least.
Did I come here to tan on the beach? To go shrieking down the camp's waterslide? To rent one of those silly three-seater-cycles and pedal around the town? Nope. Mine is an inner journey and I don't need the sun. Although it would be handy.
Anyway, it's useless for me to pack up now, piling all my muddy wet gear into the Kangoo and driving south, like two croutons in a chilled soup-on-wheels.
I'll take inspiration from those standing rocks and stay here writing my last chapters.

I remind myself of one of the many freaks that used to camp out across from the White House. This was a middle-aged woman who wore a dress and had a black wig as big and round and bulky as a football helmet. She would sit in the opening of her tent and rave at people. To supplement her vocal raving, she had printed up tall posters with her points of contention listed neatly in order.
Are there protesters camped out there now, I wonder, when there is so much more to protest?