from tucson: I mean, from mexico: like all good neighbors

Before this day, I had never been to a Mexican border town. Fly in to Mexico City, move around the central provinces, fly out. That’s it.

Want to go to Mexico?
Yes.

Less than two hours from Tucson. Drive through National Parks with vast stretches of arid land and you’re there. Leave the car at the border and follow the signs:



It’s not unimportant that this is Super Bowl Sunday. Nogales is crowded, but with almost no Americans. How do you spot an American here? We are the buyers. We come here to poke through stuff brought up to this border town by people who want a sale. More so on this day of no Americans than any other.

I take off on my own. I quickly leave the center and head for the hills, camera dangling. Can’t help it, I am these days so often looking at places through a lens. It is a bigger addiction than the Internet. You have to be a person of great patience to walk with me. I stop frequently. My friends are happy to let me go off alone.





Music. Where there are people, there is music. At one corner, five radios on full volume. Not American music. Spanish lyrics, Latin melodies.

When I was in third grade, back at the UN School, we sang this song. I remember every word:

Let’s sing a song of the good neighbor
Til it echoes o’er the sea
Si si amigo, wherever we go
Good good neighbors we will be

So let’s extend a helping hand
Across the Rio Grande
And help each other too
Like all good neighbors do – oo - oo.

So what happened? …here in this poor poor border town of Nogales?

I stand at the base of a hill, taking a photo of a blue house. There are so many colors, most faded but some still bright, up there on that hill.




A Mexican man leaves his girlfriend and comes up to me.
Miss? You want a good picture? Climb up those narrow (crumbling) stairs. All the way to the top. You will see everything.
Thanks, I will do that.





All the time I am here, I pass groups of people hanging out. Perfect words to describe it. Hanging out. Young people and even younger. Babies on the way to childhood, on the way to adulthood. Sometimes I cannot tell which is the child, which is the adult. These girls, I was going to label them “sisters.” But when one gets up I wonder if she isn’t the mother.





In a back alley, halfway up the hill I hear the racket of a machine. I pause at the doorway and look.

You wanna come inside to see?
I step in.
We are making tortillas. Did you ever see them made?
My camera, my curiosity tell it like it is: I have never seen tortillas being made and yes, I want to come inside. I watch, she explains. She smiles at my picture taking. She lets me taste the warm soft pancake. Good. How can it not be?

Neighbors come here to buy fresh ones for supper. Fresh baguettes for the Sunday supper in France, fresh tortillas for the Sunday supper in Mexico. She is happy when I tell her I want some too, even though I have no Mexican family to feed. I will feed myself.

Twenty five for fifty cents. Two pennies per pancake. American pennies welcome. American pennies. We can use American pennies here. All pennies welcome.








I climb down again and rejoin the stream of people, Mexican people, no Americans, no Americans, they’re watching Super Bowl, that’s right.

I stop in front of a bakery, trying to understand the sweet inclinations of this community. Simple cookies and buns, puffed up, showing off their freshness. Someone comes up to me. It’s the camera. It is my question mark. People have figured out that I am asking, even as I say no words.

These, we like these, the person behind me prods my elbow to focus on the side of the shelf. He smiles as I turn my camera toward his choices.



I cannot be like the Polish tourist that I half am. You know the Polish tourist in Venice? He comes with his family by bus. He takes pictures of his family on the main square. He enters the church, prays, goes outside. He sits with his family on the church steps and opens a plastic bag where he has packed (more likely his wife has packed) the breads and sausages (from Poland) for the afternoon meal. They eat. The plastic bag escapes with the wind. Ooops. He leaves, pushing the sinking city deeper into the lagoon with his tread, spends nothing, leaves his garbage and is out before sundown.

But I want nothing. No clutter back at the loft.

Still, as I dump my plastic water bottle in the trash can, the image of the Polish tourist haunts me. So I buy two green thick glass goblets. Simple goblets for simple country wines, the kind you might have with a baguette or a tortilla.



At the exit point, the US official is old, kind-looking. Friendly. The stream of people returning to Mexico, WalMart bags full of toilet paper and who knows what else, move quickly. The stream of people leaving Mexico – less so. Our drivers’ licenses are inspected, but one look and it becomes a formality. What did you buy? I am asked. Two goblets. Two beautiful goblets.

from tucson: in the matter of water

My host and I get out of the car at the foot of the Canyon.

Here’s a bottle of water for you.
Thanks. I’ll leave it in the car for later.

That snippet of conversation says it all. I am a desert hiking imbecile.

My host is not: take the water. It’s the desert.















Later:

What’s a watsu?

I ask this after I agree to subject myself to it.

I walk into a garden in the Catalina mountains. Rosemary bushes are in bloom. Humming birds descend for a swig of the sweet stuff. In front of me – a pool.





She tells me to go in. The sun is piercing there over the water. Outside, it is 75. In the pool it is 96.

Floatation devices are wrapped around my shins. She leads me into the middle and forces me into a reclining position. She holds my head above water and moves me around, this way and that. For an hour she prods, pulls and kneads my limbs, my back, my neck. I go limp in the water as she moves me, snake like, across the pool.

It feels like sea weed, doesn’t it?

I want to be sea weed from now on. Forget law school, forget gray drizzly days. Leave me in this pool so that I can watch the humming birds circle the cacti. Hi birds, I’m here, I am the sea weed.

from tucson: african art, carpets and cacti. and sun.

It’s Friday, noon, the plane lands and people start undressing. The burden of toting an extra jacket or sweater is nothing compared to the burden of dealing with bad weather up north.

The pilot, having had his adrenalin pumped, I’m sure, while coping with the Minneapolis snow now says in a resigned way: the weather in Tucson? Sunny. It’s always sunny in Tucson (I swear, a yawn follows).

It is a dry place. The last rain shower came down in mid October.

Three of us arrive from different parts of the country. Our host picks us up. I am itching to shed the long sleeves. Oh, don’t be shy! We’re not modest here. I am not shy, but ripping off my shirt in the airport parking lot seems extreme. I wait until we get in the car.

It is getting hot. We pull up behind a Motel 8. Dust covers my old shoes. Two guys are grilling meats and corn in the corner of a parking lot. My groups is hungry and so we eat.

And suddenly I am in Africa.









shea butter

People are heavily into rocks here in Tucson. It’s the second time I am in this town at the time of the gem exposition. It’s not enough that these stones are a really big deal, but the event spawns side shows, like the one here, behind the Motel 8, of African Art.



carapets and me



lunch


And lo! There is my guy from two years back, with his truck of Afghani carpets. I bought a runner from you! I’ll sell you an area rug for $1200! I don’t have $1200! Make it $200 then. Times are tough in Afghanistan.

Our friend who is hosting this reunion (four women, friends since the first year of Law School now exactly 25 years ago) lives among cacti and palm trees.






valentine's day hearts?

We stroll in the late afternoon, ready for the dessert chill that comes around when the sun goes down. On the back deck, she feeds us Brazilian drinks with lime juice and some potent something. Life is sweet.



cacti and caiparigna coctails at sunset






hairy cacti at sunset

clichés

I woke up yesterday smothered by a dream that would not loosen its grip. In it, I was leaving an airplane. I could not gather my belongings. I would pack one item and two others would spill out. I was alone on the plane, struggling to keep all these items contained, but it was no use. I finally left, leaving behind God knows what.

It’s too obvious, I know, but there you have it: me trying to contain all that is with me, required of me, presented to me, failing in the end as it all scatters to my feet.

My flight this morning out of Madison was at an awful morning hour. I had had an argument last night (or, rather, someone found me argumentative and I argued the incorrectness of this assessment) and so I did not sleep well (at all?), being sensitive to disturbances of any kind these days.

Recently, I had been noting that our airport has only bars, plus a stinky stand of packaged foods and isn’t that just typical. Not anymore. Since my transit through here two weeks ago, it has acquired a food court. Can you predict what it has to offer? Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, Quizno’s subs, the Great Dane Brewery. It’s sort of snapshot of middle-Madison, no?

I only wanted a strong coffee. Finding none, I went to the gate and tried not to sleep. I missed my boarding call, but I swear, they changed announcing agents. I had been listening for a female voice.

In Minneapolis, it is snowing. Hard. That’s fine, I expect that this is a city of snow. Snow in Minnesota, sunshine in Arizona. A stereotype I can live with, especially since my final destination is Tucson.

to lili, wherever one may find her

Lili changed my winter days forever.

I never met her and for a while I didn’t think she existed. She is one of Ocean’s earliest readers. Every once in a while she will send me an email with comments on a post. Always encouraging, always generous, always crafted with word choices that make me wonder if she is a closet writer. Or a friend pretending to be someone living far away, painting canvases for a living, indulging my feverish desire to be admired, at least in a tiny way, by a Real Artist. (Lili is cringing at my choice of words here, I know it.)

When I could not pull off an encounter (she lives in Cambridge and I visited Cambridge last summer) I became convinced that she was not real.

Then, an envelope came, from Cambridge, addressed to the Law School, with a sketch and a note. The sketch was by her and of her.

But all this is background. One of the most memorable messages from her came last February, in response to photos I posted of sunlight poking through evergreen branches. There was snow on the ground a year ago and I had paused during a brisk walk, absolutely mesmerized by these streaks of light.

She wrote that as a painter, she always appreciated the subtle change in light that occurred in February. It was like no other, she wrote. Indeed, each year on the second of the month she heads out into the country, packing a picnic lunch and eating outside, with deep appreciation for the light that would be February’s gift to us all.

Until then, I heard nothing but scorn for this month of days that were still too short and weather patterns that tried our patience. Even now, as I read blogs from my sidebar and comments to Ocean, the themes of sadness, depression, frustration with this period in the calendar year come through with a vengeance.

A colleague told me a few years back that he never makes decisions in February. The month plays with our moods in the most unfavorable way.

Not for me, not any more. I did not have time to go out into the countryside today, not even to the park or to the lakefronts. But driving to the grocery store, I had to stop the car. I was passing, of all things, the cemetery and I saw it: a dazzle of mellow light, brushing the ground, the stones. Light that was steely blue, gentle and kind.

Thank you, Lili. For some twenty-eight days now I am enthralled. More than ever in my life, sweet tenderness appeals to me. In the most improbable places, I look up and I find it, this subtle, hazy face of February.

art, animals, food

This morning at the loft I watched my new fish move in the aquarium. Back and forth they swam, sometimes aiming for the top where their food generally appears, sometimes exploring the little cave-like formation.

My friend gave me this generous gift (because I helped her search for the perfect condo). I wanted to protest, but I am glad I accepted it. The only irritant is the gurgling noise of the water filtering system, but the tank reacts to a remote control I have. One click of a button and the sound disappears.





This afternoon another friend stopped by my office, also with a gift: a rooster, so fitting when you consider that I have a teeny collection of exquisite birds gracing my window. There, I’m placing him amidst the others.

Animals in art.



The only problem is that I am hungry. It is late. I would so love a nice warm dinner out – seafood maybe? Or, comfort food of a traditional sort, like roasted chicken? I cannot. Today, I have to be a vegetarian. It seems harsh otherwise, given my two lovely gifts.

[You too can bring this tank of fish into your space. The dvd is made by Lagoon Multimedia. In the alternative, you can purchase a disc depicting a crackling fire in a fireplace. No mess, no fuss. Just the sights and sounds we associate with a good old fashioned fire. Oh, I guess the smell isn't there. That may be a good thing when it comes to fish.]

state of the ocean

Applause. It is expected.

Folks. Here she is, the author of ocean.

I took a drive into nowhere today. How did it happen? I was being pampered by Jason, the hair person supreme, who has taken to telling me wonderful things about my hair, my age, my future… (Himself? Well, he is going through a difficult phase).

I left his place drunk with gratitude but saddened by the injustices of it all.

The sun rapidly sunk into some comfortable billows of low lying clouds.





A brief period of being away from it all was enough. Within minutes, I was back in the urbe-urban setting of Madison.

I met a friend, we drank cabernets and cosmos (I the latter). I waited for the crowds to flood the premises, none came and so I retired, brushing aside the world. I posted this – I am incapable tonight of being more expansive.

So be it.

prettiness in the ordinary

I hardly left the loft today. It was an immensely tiring day as I began work at 4, just to catch up. I did not catch up. But almost.

What held me back? Several things.

First, inspired by yesterday’s poke around downtown condos (the ultimate Madison urban experience), I rearranged furniture. No kidding. Everything is now at an angle to its neighbor. I really got carried away with the idea. The TV is at an angle to its stand. The coffee table is at angle to the carpet. The chair is at an angle to the side table. And the couch is at an angle to the whole lot of them.




When you think your life is not moving fast enough, rearrange your interior space. I can’t remember when I had such fun pushing things around. Probably not since my daughters were in strollers.

Secondly, I decided it was time to cook soup. You know, to counter the bleak skies outside. One of my favorites is oven-roasted tomato soup. It requires an at home presence on account of the roasting. What should not happen is for you to decide to leave in the middle of the roasting project to get olives at your local Fraboni’s Italian deli. Because then on the way back you are likely to stop at Blockbuster, you know, for the hell of it, and then lo! They happen to have a copy of the Constant Gardener which you have wanted to see. But tell me: has anyone ever just gone into Blockbuster and not canvassed all four walls of new releases? I haven’t. That, of course, took time.

Which made me all too late to take out the roasting tomatoes. No matter. The more roast, the richer the flavor – is what I always say.

And a photo of roasted tomatoes is, to me, up there with the Monalisa. Maybe not my photo, but just in general. Roasted tomatoes are a dreary day’s godsend.



Thirdly, I corresponded with Donna Flora. Donna Flora lives in Sicily. I don’t even remember how I unearthed her. She has a friend, Donna Donatella, who in turn has Internet. So Donna Flora hikes over to Donna Donatella’s and we touch base in this way.

The issue? Donna Flora has a room I will be renting for a few days this Spring. That is fine and well, but I want Internet access. (You got it, for Ocean reasons.) And so I set Donna Flora on the mission of finding a way for me to connect out there in the middle of nowhere. If our confusion of Italian and English translates to what I think it does, I am set. But it took not a wee amount of time.

My days are so unruffled right now. It’s as it should be. Calm is good.

jewels

I was telling someone yesterday that I do not wear jewels. I ask for no diamonds, nor gold, not even pearls. A pair of earrings, I'll put on those, but that is all. This never impresses anyone, as few of the people I hang with are different in this regard.

Yet it cannot be said that I do not indulge whimsy. Mine is and always has been travel. At no time will this be more evident than in spring, when I will basically live elsewhere for several months. Jewels of a different nature.

This coming weekend I am traveling as well (though not nearly as far as in spring). I am going to Arizona. The last time I was in Arizona was two years ago (same purpose: a reunion with law school friends). I was introduced then to precious stones used in jewelry, as there was a gem exposition in Tucson at the time of my visit. I did not buy jewels, but I did befriend an Afghani guy, who followed the gem show in his truck. He sold carpets that his uncle made back in Afghanistan. I bought one tiny one. Each time I glance down at it, I think: this came from a gem exposition.

Last night I was at a birthday party. If friends were to bring beverages to my birthday party, they would know to bring wine. Maybe one or two would bring cosmo fixings. For this celebration, the beverage of choice was one that I know little about. I sampled. All good, and especially for the fantastic color they cast on the table in the evening. Gold.





This afternoon I accompanied a friend who is contemplating a move downtown. I am all about supporting those who want to move downtown. We looked at beautiful units in an older building, a place that reminded me of the fifth avenue unit I lived in as a young au pair in New York. They are such perfectly constructed gems. Worth so much more than new places that flash wealth at the beginning but eventually lose their gloss (and value).

It was clear that there was one optimal one for her. Btw, it is not the one with this view:





Why did I take note of this view and what’s with the pink box? That’s the warehouse where I’m living these days. Those three windows are my three windows.

Are jewels and gems synonymous? They should be. Are they?

why does a chicken do the things she does?

And what is the definition of a chicken anyway? A person who faces her first hill of the season and tells Mr. B: forget it. I’m walking.

I biked far yesterday afternoon. Errands pushed me to the now distant west side.

Ed, come ride with me. I want company.

We set out on a brilliant sunny day. Thermometer topped fifty for sure. January in Wisconsin.

Mr. B can’t keep up with Ed’s fancy racer. The thing is, I like Mr. B’s easy manner. Mr. B can navigate streets like no other. Still, I think I am a groggy pedaler on the rural Old Sauk hills. Adding to my ridiculously slow pace is my habit of stopping to take pictures.

Burning question for my cycling friend: why is it that you don’t spend money on clothes but have this monster bike and biking shoes and an electric air pump? All you need is latex pants.
You will never see me in latex pants. Ever.
Good.

It is a beautiful landscape.

I understand the university’s sheep expert (we have a sheep expert??) keeps his herd here. They’re out today, getting fat on scruffs of dried grass. (Of course, I don’t really know what they’re eating, but what else causes them to bury their snouts in the ground?)






I have a friend who lives around here. He makes furniture for galleries and rich people on Michigan Avenue. Want to see?

We turn off toward a barn, converted into a workshop. The space is dazzling. The tools alone make you believe you are in the presence of a skilled master. With a bent toward orderliness.





The crafted furniture is exquisite. I mean, beyond exquisite. If I had a single piece I would get rich selling tickets for people to come and look at it.



Dick in his studio, with chest

So what is your current project?
Actually I’m in between things. Occupying myself with a few chickens we recently acquired. Come look.

Here, life is beautiful…Even the chickens are beautiful.






big bird?






Sadly, nothing that we lawyers do is this creative, I say this wistfully as I stare at Dick’s portfolio of finished pieces.
Now wait. My favorite TV show is about the law these days. So don’t knock the creative impulse there.

I once said that I am in awe of people who manifest creative brilliance in some domain of their lives. The trouble is, hanging around giants can often make you feel, well, small.

reunion

Coming together after a separation. Family reunion, high school reunion, camp reunion, recognized fora for reconnecting.

Torts small section reunion.

Remember when I bet you at the beginning of the semester that you would do well?
You owe me a drink! I did not do that well!
Let’s discuss what’s well...

During winter break I did nothing. So strange, from everything to nothing.
I remember my law school days for this: the break after a semester. Where you do nothing. Never again did I have nothing to do.

Your exam, I ran out of time, you know that, don’t you? I knew the stuff. There wasn’t enough time.
There never is enough time for all that you want to say or do.
I didn’t mean to get heavy here.
I meant to say yeah, I knew that.



Ocean author turns pink

detour

A difficult class to teach today. Everything touches on everything else. The law is confusing. New developments, daily almost.

After the lecture (filling an 80 minute slot perfectly, with 30 seconds to spare for the proverbial: are there any questions? – as if I could respond then), I am spent.

I want a country walk. Sunny, forties, perfect.

But I am fragmented, torn between demands. It’s no use. Walking will not calm me.

But a detour might help. A two-block sidestep puts me on Union Terrace. Curious. In the fifties, students start wearing shorts here. In the forties, will they bring sack lunches to the lakefront?

They do not. Terrace chairs are stacked in tight rows, chained to each other.



winter terrace


The sun is too weak. Useful only for the shadows it throws on strips of snow.



winter sun


One person dares to go out on the lake. Sit down. Put on skates. One person.



winter daring


The rest of us are in limbo: caught between stacked chairs and thinning ice. Between good walking weather and demands, sucking us into a less sun-drenched sentiment.

overload

Does someone sitting late at night in her office, wanting desparately to finish an overload of to-do tasks for the day, but taking a minute out to photograph her fantastic teeny bird collection and reflection of self in large window -- does that person appear to be the type that would write a nice and thoughtful post for her blog?

No she does not.




I do want to reflect on one thing. I teach a seminar. Most of what I talk about is pulled and synthesized by me. It does not exist in written form. So I tell them, come to class. You must come to class. It is imperative that you come to class.

And then, because I want some teeth to these statements, I add: you will lose grade points if you miss more than one class.

So of course that invites disease and illness of close relatives and moot court competition conflicts and every other reason invented and realized that leads to that occasional skip.

I tell them -- be grateful! I present materials never before read by man woman or child. You will learn. Come, come students! Listen attentively. Play computer games if you must, but come and listen! You are so fortunate! At a university visited by me last week-end, professors who did not have published materials to work with put together packets that looked like this:


overload

And they come. And they listen. And they play computer games. And I really don't care that they do. As long as they come. Am I a professorial wimp?

Confessions of a fresh and honest narcoleptic

Sometime early last week :

So about our phone conversation last night?
Yeah?
You fell asleep in the middle of it.
I did? Tell me I didn’t! Did I at least hang up?


Late last week, in New Haven:

Weren’t we supposed to watch a show together?
We watched it. You pretty much fell asleep before anyone turned on the TV.
Now how did that happen? Was I sitting at the table?
Actually, you seemed to be enjoying the bed and floor in equal proportions.
No! Really? Then what?
Then we said it’s time to go and you got up and walked back to the hotel.
I did? Were my eyes open?


The next night, still in New Haven:

So you missed the movie entirely.
Darn! Did I at least eat dessert with you guys?
Yes, you ate some cake but then you zonked out. And when we told you that you should wake up and get to bed, you started demanding more cake.
I have no recollection of this!
You know, most people go to sleep when they are tired. You don’t. Maybe you should tune in to your tired inner signals.
I don’t have time to listen to my tired inner signals. I ignore them.
Clearly they don’t ignore you.

confessions of a repressed fresh and honest food fundamentalist

People say this about me: she doesn’t eat junk food. Those who see me binge, know that, for my late night crazies I eat many bowlfuls of raisin bran, Kashi seven-grain crackers, and finish things off with a hunk of organic swiss milk chocolate. Washed down with a glass of wine – usually from a bottle that I picked up because I was taken in by those silly fabricated cards that tell you it’s all about pears and green apples with a touch of anise, only by the time I uncork it, it’s near midnight and I can’t tell anise from an ass.

But people misjudge. They think I am one way and I am really off in another region altogether. Someone once said to me “you are so urban.” Sure. When I am not thinking of hiding for weeks on end in an old stone house in some forsaken village in southern France, with maybe two bakers, one bar and a restaurant as the principal sources of commercial activity within a twenty mile radius.

About junk food though. I want to be honest. It’s not all pretty down here.

Take yesterday. It started off maybe not exactly wholesome-like, but way more wholesome-like than the table next to ours, where people were ordering French toast with whipped cream and a side of sausages. My mere two pancakes felt organic and spa-like by comparison.

And lunch. Well, I don’t do lunch, so that eating a scone was within the range of the normal. But it was a huge piece of pastry, promising an uncomfortable flight back in my stretch jeans that had already reached their limit of spandex-flex before the day got under way. Still, I was not exactly ingesting crap. Just carb. So what. The French eat carbs, Poles eat sausage. Tell me who has the svelte reputation of the two.

But then things began to deteriorate.

I arrived at Hartford’s Bradley airport and there was nothing, NOTHING fresh and honest to eat there. At the one and only bar, I was told that the tender would be able to pop a hot dog into the microwave for me. Gross.

I opted for a large bag of pretzels.

On the Midwest flight I was handed a bag of Ritz Bitz with orange stuff called “cheese spread. “ I ate every one of them and washed it all down with a can of bloody mary mix. The attendant handed me two big chocolate chip cookies as a reward. I wanted to call him back and ask for two more, but I felt shy given that everyone else had only one.

My connecting flight from Milwaukee was delayed. Eating venues were closed at the airport. Except for the bar. With bag-lets of I-can’t-even-remember-what junk food.

My day. It didn't end there either. Approaching midnight, back at the loft, I felt I had to compensate. You know, balance things out with my regular fare. So I ate a huge hunk of organic Swiss milk chocolate. And opened a bottle of wine with green apple-anise overtones. Or something.

from New Haven: take flight

A day to wrap things up here on the east coast. Daughters are easing back into their own habits and routines. Parents are coordinating schedules in anticipation of evening flights back to the Midwest.

I am itching to walk. Pace outside, face the sun, take rapid steps, get that feeling of something coming to an end out of my system. Walk, briskly, walk already!

Opposition was strongest before breakfast. But then Bella’s platters were put before us…


blueberries inside, strawberries on top

Suddenly, faced with the possibility of returning to a closet of ill-fitting clothes, everyone wanted to stretch and saunter.


It’s easy to forget that New Haven is on the Sound. The oceanfront is somewhere beyond the city’s highways and warehouses. You can’t see it, smell it, access it. Yet a mere two highway exits away, there is the West Haven promenade.

Sandy stretches, coves, inlets, sandpipers, gulls, sea shells, and the ocean water, positively sparkling on this sharp day.



shimmering



beach moment (is it January?)



take flight


We follow a long stretch of sand out to cliffs. Edgy cliffs, cliffs with a sharp side to them, cliffs with a personality! Climbing the rocks, we are mesmerized. In crevices we find hundreds of shells. Birds dive toward us. Ha ha ha, you can’t fly! The water is calm, the water is wide...



so many shells...


The water! Wait, the level seems to be changing. What happened to the stretch of sand connecting us to the mainland? What do you mean, disappearing rapidly? What do you mean gone?



erasing


How the winds are laughing,
they laugh with all their might…

Like a swallow has learned to fly? No, not us, there, rooted to the ground. We haven’t the bodies for it. Only in our heads. Or with the help of some monster airplane. Otherwise – no wings. Just feet with very wet pants and shoes.




submerged, distant now. such quick changes. wings -- wings help. other options? move quickly, get wet. or sink. or swim.