Found in the Sand

Photo Illo

for TOP THREE FOODS TO EAT BEFORE YOU HIT THE GYM.

Happy Birthday, Gina!

Some Enchanted Evening at the Monkey House

me, Eric, Suzy

Here we are monkeying around outside the Monkey House in Berkeley. Tonight was storytelling night, and the man in the middle tells a mean tale. It's Eric from TIAPOS*! He doesn't read the story, he looks you in the eye and tells it. The audience cracks up.

*Our writing group is called TIAPOS, which stands for This Is A Piece Of Shit.

Fate?

Nope, these aren't my photos. My publisher sent them to me. She's visiting her dad, who lives on top of the ocean. She found the glass in the first photo Monday and the glass in the second photo Tuesday. Isn't it amazing we've ended up working together, two people who have the same sickness for sea glass?

Tuesday

5:49 p.m.

Sunday Evening

found in the sand

6:10 p.m.

Before We Got Soaking Wet

5:53 p.m.    Soon afterwards, the clouds burst and we still had a mile and a half to go. Fun!!

Friday Night Before Netflix

The Eagle's Nest has been demolished and the area replanted. It's nice that the bridge is visible.

Gina, this is where you and the Doc got married (the Coastal Trail where Land's End meets Sea Cliff).

Writing Group

There were eight of us at TIAPOS. Above are Olivia (in fur coat), Jane, Eric, Doug, and Will.

Here's a special treat. This is the poem Will brought, and he read it in Nixon's voice:

NIXON IN HEAVEN

I can still smell the lilies at the funeral––lush, sweet,
abundant, the scent swirling in among the pops
of the twenty-one gun salute, all those fine
young marines in white gloves––and the eulogies to me,
a statesman. That’s all I ever really wanted.

Now I’m pretty much an unknown--surprised, really,
to be here at all, but it’s not as if they’ve put me in charge
of anything, though I did submit one request to oversee
surveillance. I’m in a little shack at The Outskirts––
that’s what they call it, it’s a big, lonely district––

and I’ve got a piano. I’m learning Hail to the Chief,
some variations I’m working up myself.
Liberace comes by to help me with my technique.
He wears tails that light up like the stars and bars
and tells me soon I’ll be ready for the dancing waters.

Pat stops by too--part of her therapy, I gather.
She swears a blue streak, calls me a son of a bitch
and a miserable cocksucker, then grins and pinches my cheek.
Then she slams the door so hard the roof wobbles
and floats off with the most endearing spring in her step.

Will Walker

Rain

5:33 p.m.

Time, Time, Time

 Who knows what we'll find on the beach tomorrow.

5:58 p.m.