By the June Moon (Part 2 of 3)

Fourteen miles.

Fourteen miles out.

Cold waters flowed south, and the warm steamed north. Two currents snarled and fought.

In the vast turbulence, clouds of sand ribboned, and peaks of water licked the wind. Crabs scrambled to the leeward side of the shoals.

A lone tern banked and teetered in the breeze.

Wings flapped, and feet curled on the leaning tip of mast.

Below the water, the deck of a sailing ship washed and foamed, broken in two. Fourteen miles away.

No one was left to cry out. Or to see.

After storms without a beacon.

In 1870.


(Photo: It's still going on as I post this. Thunderstorms sliding out to sea. As for the Where's Jason challenge, some clues are in this one!)

By the June Moon

He was not.

Then he was.

The change happened so delicately, so imperceptibly, that he wasn't immediately aware of the difference.

If you asked him in that moment, that moment of being after not-being, he wouldn't have answered you. Because to answer, it is not enough to hear. You must first be able to distinguish sound from not-sound. Then distinguish meaningful sounds from noise. Then speech from non-speech. And finally, your brain must be trained and equipped to translate that language.

So he would not distinguish you from the dark.

As he was.

Eyes nailed forward. Knees folded to his chest. Hands flat on the floor. A floor which sat empty a few moments before.

He stared and existed and did not discern.

Until he did discern.

A sound scrubbing at the boundaries of his consciousness.

Rhythmic. A rhythm. A hiss and rumble, hiss and rumble.

Waves. He was hearing waves crashing. And his consciousness said waves. His first thought in the dark.

He was hearing waves roll and rumble beneath him.

And not knowing where or why.

And that sparked his first emotion.

Fear.


(This week is Where's Jason week. I'm writing on location. Somewhere. And I'm exploring a scene which jumped into my head two months ago. It's a perfect location to do it. The picture was taken last night. How's that for turn-around?)

Game Friday--Swimmy Moments

Before the game today, I first wanted to give you a couple of previews. Next week, I'm going to be doing something a little different. I'll be writing on location, and you all can try to find where I am. A spooky little story jumped into my head about a month ago, and I'm going to have the perfect opportunity to explore it.

Secondly, look for an announcement soon for the next Clarity of Night short fiction contest. This one will be a bit different and promises to be B.I.G. It will open in the vicinity of mid-July.

Now, for the matter at hand. Let's talk about warm and memorable moments in your life. Times really stamped on your memory. Times of great pleasure with the course of your life.

Let's share three. Here are the first ones that come to me:

1. Going in person to Philadelphia City Hall to find out that I passed the bar exam (after I swore I would wait for the mail and not go in person). Walking down the hall and feeling elated at having passed, I thought about how 19 years of schooling had just ended. I wouldn't have to sit through classes and exams again.

2. Anytime we anchor our boat out in the water and just lounge and drift off to sleep. Somehow there is nothing like getting yourself onto a big piece of water on your own power to make you feel competent and the master of your own destiny.

3. Recently taking my 10-year-old to the driving range with her first golf clubs. For the first time I felt more comraderie in the relationship than parenting. I think the next couple of years are going to be really good.

Your turn in comments!

Beatitudes

::Blessèd are the dream-builders,
     For they are the flesh and stone
     of what would otherwise not be known::


(Photo: Taken at the Philadelphia Art Museum)

Beer Philosophers #7--Red Hot

"I need to get me some habaneros."

"What, are your taste buds itching to do the cha cha?"

"I want something hot. I want something that's gonna make me bawl. Like I just lost my puppy."

"Awww. That's sad."

"So do you have any habaneros?"

"Nope. Fresh out."

"No pepper sauce? Nothing with a skull or bubonic plague on the label?"

"No."

"Damn. What about take out menus? Mexican or Indian or something? Where do you keep the serious stuff?"

"Nothing like that around here, man."

"Come on! I need me some hotness! I'm going to meet someone later tonight!"

"Wait. What? You're meeting someone later?"

"Yeah."

"You mean like a date?"

"Well, not exactly a date. But it could be date. I'd like to turn it into a date."

"Putting aside this shocking revelation, what do habaneros have to do with a date?"

"Well, you know...."

"Really. I don't."

"You know. Hot food makes you...hot."

"No. Only the gym makes you hot."

"No, no. That's not what I mean. I mean hot. You know. Like Redwood, if you get my drift. Sequoia even. Plant a forest...nudge nudge, wink wink."

"Wait, you mean--"

"I do!"

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"You're freaking nuts."

"Dude. There's been studies. I'm serious."

"Look, spicy food makes you sweat. I've certainly heard that. That's why it's so popular in cultures that live in hot parts of the world. When you sweat, it cools you down. Ironic, when you think about it."

"Yeah, it makes you sweat. And it also makes little Elvis find his hound dog."

"..."

"I see you're speechless."

"And you've experienced this yourself?"

"Yep. Definitely."

"Okay. Okay. Let me ask you this. Remember last year when we ordered all that serious, kick-ass Mexican food?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to you at 2:30 in the morning?"

"Oh."

"Not 'oh.' Tell me what happened. You remember."

"Well, I kind of had a somewhat serious...somewhat catastrophic...environmental disaster in the bathroom."

"Indeed, you did."

"But..."

"And that's my point exactly. Little Elvis aside, the real situation involves the butt. I tell you, the horror I witnessed that night not only left me with deep emotional scars, but it probably was the most un-sexy thing I could ever imagine. Even if you gave me the rest of my life to think about it."

"I'm beginning to see your point."

"Very good."

"So, do you happen to have a nice yogurt? Or maybe a little leftover paté?"

Irreplaceable

With each day eroding
The power to have in our hands
Only ghosts will grin to receive us
If we sit through our moments to stand

Jiffy-Pop Man

Jiffy-Pop
Jiffy-Pop
Jiffy-Pop Man
heard what you were thinking
in the bathroom drinking
blinking sleepy sand

Jiffy-Pop
Jiffy-Pop
Jiffy-Pop Man
morphs behind the mirror
tiptoes nice and nearer
boning knife in hand

Thunderhead

(Photo: Taken at the Philadelphia Art Museum)

They watched its birth on the horizon.

Puffy white blooming into the upper air. Feeding hot and wet in the humidity.

In minutes, its mood darkened over the water. Billowing larger. Cutting shadows across the other clouds.

Then, the curtain of rain unrolled across the bay. They scurried to pick up books and belongings and huddled in the small cabin of the boat.

They sat, watching the bobbing doorway and listening to the patter of the rain. Waves drummed against the hull, turned into the wind by the anchor.

First port, then starboard.

A slow
        rocking
beat.

By the time the skies cleared, their thoughts waltzed in watery wombs.

Gentle grey still lingered in their sleep.


(In honor of our 2010 maiden voyage today. All in all, a good day despite skirting the summer squalls.)

Beach

She rubbed the feathery white sunscreen into her arms.

Tiny sparkles caught the sun like daytime stars.

"Can you do my back?" she said.

The breeze paused. He slid over on the blanket. Settled into position.

Along the wet sand, surf curled and rumbled gently. It sounded cozy and strangely far away.

"What a perfect day," he said.

"Mmmmmm."

He squeezed the cream into his palm. Dropping the tube in the bag, he dipped his fingers to get two hands going at once.

Goosebumps rose at the touch of cold, then settled smooth.

"You know," he said, "I used to watch guys putting sunscreen on girls' backs when I was young."

Skin. Slick and soft.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he said. "Before I ever had a girlfriend. Before anything."

She didn't move. Just enjoyed.

"It was hypnotizing," he said. "I didn't want to look away."

"And what does it feel like now? When it's you?"

He smiled. Big.

"It never, never gets old," he said.

First Cherry

I kind of have a thing about fruit.

Not eating it, but I certainly like that too. Very much, in fact.

Growing it.

Growing it myself, to be precise.

Why? I have no idea. When I was six I used to salivate over a neighbor's gorgeous apple trees. When I was eight, my father taught me the wonders of wild, sour apples (and salt). When I was thirteen and living in a different state, my friend and I used to "borrow" plums from yet another neighbor. With permission. (I think.)

Something about having fruit trees feels primal to me. And self-sufficient. Cyclical. Earthy. I wanted/want fruit trees. Simple as that. But as you may have heard, trees don't exactly grow, um, fast.

So, I started with a plum tree about 13 years ago, and that failed. Weird diseases. No plums. A bit of a problem, no?

A side foray into blueberry bushes was successful, but not beefy enough. My next project was a cherry tree. But once again, pests were a problem, as well as a few mishaps (like driving over the young tree with my truck. Um, whoops.) Years passed. The tree grew. Cherries would form, then wither and fall off. Sad. Next year would be my year, I would tell myself.

In the meantime, we bought our mountain land, and I started an orchard up there. Things were going well...until the bear. Then, the mice chewed the bark in winter and killed some more. I started a new orchard next to our cabin armed with some lessons learned. Check back with me in five years to see if I have success there.

So back to the cherry tree. Finally. FINALLY, this year a smattering of cherries stayed on and grew. It had been so many years (8 or 9), that I didn't even remember that they were yellow with a blush of red, rather than fully red. When one of them split, and I tasted it, I realized that lo and behold, they had ripened!!

So, I give you our first cherry in all its yumminess. At last, I managed to raise a fruit tree to bearing age before I die. I was beginning to wonder....

And yeah, I know you're thinking about cherry jokes. It's okay.

Munch away.

Insectivore

on a walk
from my pillow
on a hazy June night
I dreamed a grasshopper
regurgitated
your words
on my brown-stained
fingers
with little mandibles
knitting
like
knitting needles
without yarn
and a thousand eyes
each looked a
different way
everywhere
and nowhere

then I was the grasshopper
and you were the fingers
and I fanned
brown and yellow
wings
but not before the swat
and my legs poked
groundless spasms
until I became still

the grass tassels
waved
the black-eyed susans
dipped
and the flies
circled
with nowhere
to land

Game Friday: First Albums

It's been baking here lately. Crank up the temperature and humidity! It's even hot in the mountains (hence my previous post). Let's cool off this weekend, shall we?

Here's the question for the day. I want you to remember a first--the first time some music struck you, meant something to you, and you took the initiave to go out and buy it. We're talking about laying down some hard earned cash (or birthday money) not for that video game or that disembodied Barbie makeup/styling head, but for your first album.

So spill it. What did you buy?

For me it was the Flock of Seagulls self-titled, debut album in 1982. Classic hits include the award-winning (or not) I Ran and Wishing. Yeah, those were the days...and haircuts. It's weird how that sound still means something to me. New Wave. A frozen time and place.

How about you? What's your story?

Forest Sauna

Butterfly sun steams
Bright leaves and baking branches
Summer visits May