The sky enfolds pale and the rain makes suggestions while mist chews the trees
There are plenty of words at the start. These words emerge and tumble down. They fall in cold rivulets. Soon, there are piles of words. Strangers tromp through them. They block the view. Children play. I sigh. Stop.
This is a sad-looking pine tree about two-thirds of the way up the slope toward the treehouse location. It’s the only actual pine tree I’ve run across on Arthur’s two lots – there are quite a few of them out east along the road where the muskeg is (the flat stretch near the bridges), but not so many here along the hillside. This pine tree looks like someone attempted to decapitate it at some point, but it’s decided to stay in the game for now.
[daily log: walking, 1km; ditchdigging, 1m]
one oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh - two to the tenth
A string sings along through the lumpy, bumpy sea... our sad, swollen sea.
Arthur and I went out in the boat today. Still fishless, though.
The tide was very low in the morning. I took this picture of a tree reflected in the water with a fat starfish under the water in the shade of the dock.
Here is the low tide – you could actually step from the beach to the dock.
Here is a sea otter I saw.
[daily log: walking, 1.5km]
Where is the Poet
The inky-garmented, truth-dead Cloud — woven by dumb ghost alone in the darkness of phantasmal mountain-mouth — kidnapped the maiden Moon, silence-faced, love-mannered, mirroring her golden breast in silvery rivulets: The Wind, her lover, grey-haired in one moment, crazes around the Universe, hunting her dewy love-letters, strewn secretly upon the oat-carpets of the open field. O, drama! never performed, never gossiped, never rhymed! Behold — to the blind beast, ever tearless, iron-hearted, the Heaven has no mouth to interpret these tidings! Ah, where is the man who lives out of himself? — the poet inspired often to chronicle these things? - Yone Noguchi (Japanese poet [composing in English], 1875-1947)
the tide is quite low there are crabs among the rocks an eagle watches.
Wind precludes the silence which sits waiting at the edge of things, off in the forest, there, down by the surging waters, where the eagle crouches, watching, and no one awaits nothing but time.
some survivalists surveyed their situations and gazed at the sky
Hi, narrator here. Please disregard these meanings. The words stand alone.
I drove to Hollis this morning, to drop Arthur at the ferry for a day trip into Ketchikan, because he is supposed to get MRI and CT scans. I told him to watch out for those high-energy photons.
I stopped by the road on the way back to Craig, and took this picture of a tree (or rather, it’s the snag that’s so prominent, here).
I also made this unexpected anachronism sighting by the road near Hollis.
I drove back to Craig, hung out at home (I didn’t get called to substitute, today), then drove back to Hollis in the evening to get Arthur back off the ferry.
[daily log: walking, 1km; driving, 130km]
Firstly, we gazed askance at the spaceship Plunging wild through the grim-faced sky. Flares were winking on a trailing wingtip Where a faded emblem seemed to fly. Secondly, speakers sung with the voices Screaming out dangers and proffering choices, Hinting at various important things. Dark was the mood then, beshadowed by wings. Thirdly, our leaders emptied the city. Multitudes fled to the sun-tortured hills, Some of them starving while others sold pills Which the wounded endured. Such a pity. Endless miseries kept ensuing - Doubts, above all. What were we doing?