Good Neighbors
Denizens of The Dock
The Twenty Dollar Smile
Writing On The Dock of The Bay
A nurse drove home through the City after work and stopped at a traffic light on Van Ness. A man with a cup stood on the median. She had seen him there many times before - lean and haggard with a straggly beard, a guitar case at his feet. She made it a practice not to give money. Sometimes, she had a tangerine from lunch that she would give away. But this December night it was clear and cold, very cold. She sat in her car waiting for the green light with her heater on, freezing. He must be really freezing, she thought. So she did something she never does. She reached into her purse and grabbed a bill. A twenty was all she had. She gulped, opened her window, and gave it to him. The man looked at the twenty dollar bill in disbelief. Are you sure??? he asked. Yes, she nodded. I'm so happy he said, his face lighting up with a smile. I can eat a hot meal tonight and I can buy a new string for my guitar and next time I see you I will play you a song - okay? She smiled and nodded and said, Yes, thank you. Then the light turned green. She drove towards home, his smile lighting the way.
Things I've Seen Float By
Blaze's Boat
Writing Light
Writing On The Dock of The Bay
Once I asked my friend Leonard Gardner to help me figure out how to put a new ribbon in my old Smith & Corona upright. He came downstairs to our dim flat where my typewriter sat on a bright blue table and typed: ‘First we must have light.’ I’ve never forgotten that, and now some thirty years later sitting in a room full of light I think how it works both ways – how we need light to write, and how writing itself provides us with light, how it casts meaning and understanding onto the page and allows us to play with our shadow.
That Same Morning
Current Photo
Beethoven Soaring
Writing On The Dock of The Bay
Monday while listening to a piece by Beethoven on the radio, the piano sounded so smooth and effortless and beautiful, rising and gliding and soaring and I watched a bird soaring over the smooth lagoon and they were in synch, maybe one and the same- the music, the bird, and me.
Frosty South Forty
Current Photo
Denizens of The Dock
Scout
What you don't see in this photo is the exuberant, crotch-seeking dog named Scout who is being kept at bay with one hand, somewhat futilely, while his owner - a friendly stranger - takes this shot; all of us out for a waterfront walk on a brisk November day .
Answering The Bell
Writing on The Dock of The Bay
We were worried. Santa was running late this year. He summers in the houseboat across the channel. We're sure it's him. All bets are off on whether that's Mrs. Claus. She seems younger. November. Shouldn't he be gone? Toys don't just make themselves. Yesterday he sipped tea in the sun in a breezy aloha shirt as a flotilla of awol geese drifted by. He's lost weight, too. Not always a good sign at a certain age. People wonder. Privately, I edited my wish list to guard against Christmas morning letdown. Also, I had a bit of an off year. Last night I heard ringing - was it a dream? Someone's hull alarm? This morning, blinds across the channel were closed- not a creature was stirring. The houseboat looked buttoned up for winter. That was no dream I'd had, no cause for alarm I'd heard- that ringing was swell. Once again, Santa has answered the bell!
Sunrise Masts
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Box Poem
Denizen of the Dock, Jim Woessner, guest blogger
Tourists freeze because their travel agent only said "California," which means "sun" in most languages. But no one told them you can die from fog exposure in June. And they say "guten tag" or "ciao bella," and ask, "What's it like to live on water?" "How much does it cost to own a houseboat?" And always, "How do you deal with sewage?" So I say "guten tag" or whatever, and then "swell," "a whole lot," and "a big pipe." Jim Woessner, Little Boxes
Tiny Pliny
Novembeer
Mt. Tam
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photo by Ruth Biederman Fitzsimmons
Birthday Card From My Friend Ron After A Visit
Writing On The Dock Of The Bay
Falling Under The Influence of Place
Sometimes place becomes the starting point. Where we go from there becomes an adventure, a journey of creation and discovery. Sometimes, where we started when we began to write, gets left in the dust; so too does the genre we thought we were in. And when that harp plays and it's time to wrap things up, we wonder where the story we just wrote came from, and where and when and how did time itself disappear . . .
One's destination is never a place, but rather a new way of looking at things. - Henry Miller
Bird Wonder
Passing Through
