It's the reflections . . .
. . . that remind me of what I love most here ~
photo by Jamey Genna
The Same Volcano
In the month of July I read at three different places - Tommy Mierzwinki's Two Jacks Denim, Kara Vernor's, and Dani's, Get Lit in Petaluma, and Jamey Genna's Summer Sparks in San Francisco. I've had 10 stories published since March. One was a contest winner. Another featured as 'poem of the week' in Third Wednesday's blog which amused me. Quite an honor for fiction to be running with the poems! I've been on a submission mission for 5 months, though I prefer send to submit. Been writing for 35 years, teaching for 27, never consistently sent my work out before. Seemed sorta beside the point at the time. So why now?
Why not?! And the readings? They feel vital and invigorating and put me in The Now. It's being orally published. It's an exchange. Hearing the work of others, sharing your work, feeling the crowd's response (or lack of one!). It's exciting, it's got juice. And it's something we can do in what at times seems a powerless time— take things in our own hands, make our own way, discovery, share, listen, and embrace. A two way flow. There was a writer at the SF reading, Tongo, who performed his work with no script. I had no idea what he said, but it knocked me out. I told him after reading my stuff and getting some laughs, then listening to his intense and moving words, felt as if I'd arrived in a mini van but left on a BSA, maybe Triumph. He said, 'we all come from the same volcano.'
Scupltural
Elie Wiesel said writing is more like sculpture than painting — you take away, you don't add. Living on houseboats is the same. You take away what you don't need, leaving space for beauty, wonder, and light to flow in, linger, and recede.
Floating Sister City, Victoria
photo by Jim Woesnner
A Thousand Wind Chimes
A brisk breeze blew as I sipped coffee on the roof deck and did tai chi. Flags waved and riggings rang against the sailboat masts like a thousand wind chimes in the morning.
Any Minute Now
“What you do with yourself, just the little things you do yourself, these are the things that count.” Buckminster Fuller
Neil says the heron’s cry may be the sound of the dinosaur. Early this morning the orange tabby and I watch the heron fish at low tide. Tabby watches intently, ears erect. The heron cries - a sound that splits the morning and maybe time. I sip coffee. The cat crouches in fear perhaps, faint recollection, echo of memory, the pterodactyl and tiger, & neanderthal with coffee.
Sunglasses
I have a hard time passing up the free pile at the end of our dock without at least taking a look. My daughter teases me about all the sunglasses I have. But every pair has been found. Sometimes in the free pile. Sometimes in a shopping cart, sometimes in the trash. That's pretty much my standard for acquiring sunglasses- not how they look on me, or if they are men's or women's, but whether or not they are free. And it's a good thing, too. Apparently, I'm hard on shades. I break them. I've even been known to lose them. At least I think I've lost them . . . hmmm, has someone been thinning the herd?
