Wandering the backstreets, freewrite

Wandering the unfamiliar backstreets I find the path always goes forward. I find forgotten pieces of myself in the alleyways, on those secret paths etched by children and pets—they go with impunity to places where grownups fear to tread. Like a jewel, memory is triggered by a particular bend in the road, a certain slant of sunlight, kindled by the odor of a season. 

The way the sun struck my face. I analyzed it—hot, humid, like spring, but fuller with a promise of harvest—that rich heat similar to spring, but more laden. Indian Summer coats the skin with humidity. We’re not used to it here on this coast. Florida, maybe. And I am transported back by the dappled light, myriad sun circles spread on the ground like small vanilla wafers.

The old cat wanders by, sniffing each circle as if it were elegible for treasure. He stops, sniffs, with mouth slightly ajar—flehmen. It’s as if he too were transported by memory, having taken the backroad himself. We bask in the late afternoon sun. His dark coat lies flat, full of static electricity, sparks flying under my hand, but the sun outshines the light of his fur during these long drawn out dog days of Summer.

8/27/2004 Writers' Group

Pulses (prose poem) (Why did Google flag this blog entry as a server redirect error again?)

The old one bent over the fire feeding the pulses, one at a time into the cooking pot. End of summer, and the green beans that bolted and grew towards the sun in the hopes that the great beanstalk in the sky would find them a ladder to the heavens, were unceremoniously shucked, their corns tossed into the stew pot for the evening meal. This evening, the next—it didn't matter. It all wound up in the same place eventually, thought the old woman. Her gray hair hung down in thin ropes, like bedraggled feathers. Soon she too would go the way of all things. The fire popped and hissed. She watched the film rise from a crack in the wet wood. Stranded bugs did a frenzied dance on the rotted log she'd used for starter wood. She marveled at their amethyst color, so like the bauble of the Chieftain, who was always yammering on about his own self importance. The hot bugs curled into tight balls, and rolled off right into the coals like berserker warriors leaping into the fray. She was still puzzling over last winter's tale about a dragon, his mother, and the dragonslayer. Something about bears. No, that wasn't it, the warrior was more like a bear or a wolf. The last moon of summer rose over the new mown grain. the ache in her bones spoke of another story trapped in the silence of the earth. Soon the teller of tales would return to the village and pick up his tale where he left off. And, the beans, or their remains would turn up in the pot until they too dissolved into yesterday's stew, harboring the last of the summer sun in their skin. She hoped that this winter he would finish the tale so she could put the story to rest. But she worried that the dragon’s mother might be lying in wait for her during the longest nights.

8/24/04

Berkeley

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134th annual Scottish Highland Games approacheth

As Indian Summer approaches, we'll be roaming in the gloaming in kilts and gossamer gowns at the Caledonian Club's 134th annual Scottish Highland Games in Pleasanton this Labor Day Weekend—should anyone care to join us for any or all festivities.

There will be a royal pre-Game Pub Nights on Thurs., the 2nd (and most likely on Fri., the 3rd as well, I imagine); responsible revelers are staying over & slaying pints at the Pleasanton Holiday Inn. (Less crawling involved.) Main Street Brewery, opposite Pleasanton Hotel, north side of Main St. Around 7, Isla St. Clair, Piedmont Highlanders Pipe Band, dancers, fiddlers NON. Or just follow your ears and dust off your favorite mondegreens. (Forgo the Atkins Diet for the Monty Python greens and uisca diet).

Rumor has it Neil O'Neill, Himself, the Man so Nice They Named Him Twice, will sing a few national anthems to help open the Games on Saturday morning. We need YOU, a rousing, randy chorus for the unofficial Scottish National anthem. The words are pretty simple: you just pull your lips apart and yell "Who?" during the appropriate chorus. "....and stood against him.. WHO? Proud Edward's army..." (Longshanks, that is...) Qua? you might ask? Wallace fought against him. (see pix bellow)

So dust off your candent royal Stewart togas, paint your faces woad blue, warm the cockles of your, erm, your pipes, shoot your television, quaf a few brews or uisge beatha and see some real live action at the Games.

Beware, however, if someone asks you to stand in for the polish caber catcher. To go hunting for the wee lost haggis, you'll need a flashlight, extra batteries.

Oh and by the way, for you newbies, don't let your sporran dangle its participles. The sgian dubh is to be kept at all times in your knee socks. It's not a good idea to goosestep in a kilt either, for, as you know, nothing is worn under them (other than blue ribbons). Everything is in perfectly good working order. Or, it's a Loch Ness monster and it's waiting for you (or ewe, depending upon the Scot's particular, peculiar proclivities). However, though patent leather shoes for the lassies is perfectly acceptable, mirrors are definitely out.

Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

It looks like we left the Florida Keys in the nick of time. We returned from the Dry Tortugas in the middle of a huge storm. Little did we know that it was a precursor to Hurricane Charley, (it must've been post-Hurricane Bonnie) and it was very impressive. 

We had wild indigo seas for most of the 70 miles to the Dry Tortugas, and strange, calm, green, glassy seas as we returned to Key West. Flying fish, sea turtles, and sea birds were all riled up—even a suicidal amberjack tried to land in my arms as I stood at the bow of the ship like a masthead in order to avoid all the poor wretches retching all over the place inside the cabin.

As for Hurricane Charley, this morning, the eye of the storm passed over Fort Jefferson, situated on an atoll, some 22 acres barely above sea level, with blustery 125 MPH winds, after wreaking havoc last night in Havana where it made landfall.

Fort Jefferson's sixteen million bricks, myriad arches laid by Irish workers over 150 years ago, how will they hold up in the eye of the storm? The tiny drainage channels in Dr. Mudd's cell, the man who tended John Wilkes Booth, useless in this rain. The moat, a frail buffer against rising seas. 

Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Kirk y Mari,

Fort Jefferson was mindblowing; 70 miles of sea, the last third of the journey was rough, open seas, with 2-4 foot swells, the sea changing from green to turquoise to indigo to black as a squall hit. I kept thinking of those Cubans fleeing the island in little more than rafts. 

We were going 26 knots (30 MPH) and it took 2.5 hours each way. A raft, at the mercy of the tides & wind would take forever. Hemomgway was strandede here for 17 days, they fashioned a raft to get back to Key West. You could tell when the water got deep (aside from color) when the lobster pot floats disappeared, there were thousands of them, everyone going nuts on opening day of the season.

Anyway, you can also fly here, maybe a saner option, and avoid getting seasick. But you don't get to spend as much time here. Next time I'd skip the dolorous fort tour & head for the water ASAP. We didn't get any quality snorkeling in as the storms hit, and lightning & H2O don't mix. 

We did get some time in when the storm blew over but it wasn't sunny, and so we didn't get to see the colors. We got to see jumping conchs though! Who knew they could jump on their bright orange pseudo foot? And here I thought they were sedentary stationary objects. Not.

You know, I absolutely HATE Duval Street after dark! It's LOUD, with bad musicians blaring from every door. Neil didn't play any gigs after all, Open Mic is on Wed nights, and everything is sewed up tighter than a tick anyway.

We'll see you all sometime this late aft./eve. We want to see Susan first after her class at 3:30 to say goodbye. It's a long drive from Key West to Key Largo.

Besos y abrazos, M&N

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal