Beautiful weather is here, and nothing much is falling in the ocean right now except for trees. So the large number of books in the water, shimmering in the sunshine, seemed to be offerings.
I had a friend who was into Laurie Anderson’s music in the early ’90s. I remember she had a line, “When my father died, it was like a library burned down to the ground.”
I found myself looking for clues to whose library it was. Again, Washaway provides an opportunity to look at what was once special to somebody, now scattered like trash all over the beach. Amazingly, there was a picture of a brass band from 1910 in the stew.
I have three friends with cancer now. I keep getting brained by shock waves of fear and grief. I can cry on demand, wanna see?
Why go spending money on therapists and pharmaceuticals, when I can be assured that for the cost of a tank of gas, I will feel better. Here the sense of loss is so in the forefront that it is a comfort.
The ferocious, fragile beauty amid the destruction lends it a quality of irrepressible hopefulness that intoxicates me. At the Tyvek house where the guy killed himself, the Rhodies are in bloom.
The World War II gun turret is almost completely filled in and is a little ecosystem of mussels and sparkles.
My latest friend to be diagnosed with cancer is the most disciplined, hardworking artist I know. He is a master potter who was born in Norway, and grew up working on fishing boats. His dad was lost at sea, and he told me when he goes in the water the first thing he says is “Hi, Dad.”
So Regnor was telling me that as soon as he got done with his cancer, he wanted to get back in the saddle, and he’d made a number of new pots that he wanted to pit-fire in my excellent fire pit. The theme of the series is sea salt, since it has infused so much of his life. He instructed me to start collecting seaweed for the firing.