2) Visitors are forced to do nothing. You can't get in the water (because there's some sort of algae that causes liver issues) and there are no boats. No picnic tables. The number of manmade benches is less than 10. Fishing is allowed but it's my assumption that those caught probably shouldn't be eaten because of the algae, meaning it's catch-and-release. There's a trail/bike path around the lake that never reaches the shore without breaking off onto the lesser trails made by determined people like myself.
Lake Frank offers you nothing but itself. You hear water sounds, fish-catching-bugs sounds, the rare whir of a bike tire on pavement passing above you if you've ventured to the shore to sit on the damp dirt. Bug sounds. Wind sounds. Leaf sounds.
It's here, this day, I realized the completely of my memory loss. I've forgotten how to be still. Sitting on an old, fallen wooden post next to quiet waters moving with the paddles of turtles and gliders, I found myself wanting to be doing something. Getting stuff done. Intentionally wasting time in the degenerative way. Looking to my phone for distraction from the nothingness. I came intending to read and write in a meditative setting, with a meditative heart, but I was nearly incapable (read: actually unwilling) to let the depths be deep.
That has to be at least part of why I've not had any sense of peace in the past many months. I no longer know how to be at peace, to sit peacefully.
Lake Frank forces you by itself detachment to feel the weight of the meaninglessness of the surrounding anxieties, habits, distractions, schedules, what-have-you. Those aren't real, not in truth.
3) Lake Frank is lovely.
