swinging death

I barely knew it.  This new hammock.


Or, at least, new to me. 


When my last hammock died, my landlady graciously donated this one from a house she had just purchased.


We never quite bonded.  The hammock and me, that is.  It was smaller than the previous hammock and the mosquitoes kept driving me away from its more sybaritic pleasures.


It is now no more.  One morning I discovered that six of its ropes had snapped.  Theories abound.  At least my corpulence was not the major contributing cause.


The hammock is easily replaceable.  Vendors ply the playa as thick as fallen women in The Bowery.  And I will buy another.


Its unraveling death is just another symbol of how life changes.  When I moved to Melaque, I spent a good portion of my life in a hammock.  Watching the ocean.  Reading.  Sleeping.  Even learning the skills of dining while swinging.


When the new hammock arrives, I will most likely not use it very much.  I suspect my retirement has marched on past the hammock stage.


Before I get bored with life, I need to seek out something new.  I am on the prowl for a new hammock, but for something far less sedentary, as well.