“Know that joy is rarer, more difficult, and more beautiful than sadness. Once you make this all important discovery, you must embrace joy as a moral obligation.” Andre Gide
I love living here because Winter Solstice is the perfect day to dump the jacket & boots
and walk the shore barefoot, whether young
or mid & very young
or willets interacting
even the western snowy plover
is on the shore of Point Reyes on this perfect day.
In Wiccan tradition, people stay awake on Winter Solstice to sing and cleanse and watch over the sleeping Sun as he regenerates within their safe croons and arms till the following morning when his strength is restored. In subsequent days, Sun shines brighter and longer till Summer Solstice, after which he continues to weaken until once more watched over as he sleeps through the longest night of the year.
Thank you for following this blog. I appreciate your support. This blog will resume Winter Solstice 2011…consider the time between as poetry’s space on the page since:
…it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,
silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness
of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.
(excerpt from “If Not for Silence” )
The painting is part of a larger watercolor that I’ll post in the future.
Zoe, the main character of my novel-in-progress, continues to photoblog at bonegirlpix.wordpress.com
Creation’s force uses whatever is around to pay tribute, express, memorialize. One man, playing volleyball by the time I walked by, gathered and sculpted driftwood toward the sun on this longest day of the year. As they arrived, friends added feathers, cones, trash, seaweed, a scarf she’d brought, until they’d collectively created “The Sea Tree.”
Too many beautiful naked people surrounded this piece so I chose to capture only the top half, but it was grounded by tall driftwood pressed close as if a single truck with seaweed dangling about four feet above the sand to the right of this central truck .
For a shot that better captures the magic rather than the specifics, www.bonegirlpix.wordpress.com
This is a wing print left on our window just like we might leave hand smudges. While a bird clearly hit the window, it survived and flew away.
While Zoe snagged a version of this for her photoblog http://bonegirlpix.wordpress.com/2010/04/18/wing-print-left-on-window/
it warrants words as well. Besides I like the color in this version as it reminds me of a winged Sufi heart.
I’m not sure what led to the color, though I placed a music stand on the other side of the glass to better capture the print and the greens/reds were likely reflected from my side of the glass.
Supple Wings (excerpt)
…Sean leaned past me, barely brushing the front of my body as he reached for the corkscrew to my right.
His touch was light, less pressure than one might feel as passengers squeeze past to get off a bus, but it entered like a flame to kindling and ignited a pulse that echoed like invisible sonar mapping shelter, food, mate. Pheromones are tricky. Like light waves they can’t be seen but can burn through a person with the intensity of sun through a magnifying glass. You can’t see it coming, can only beg for mercy if mercy’s what you really want.
For the entire story please go to
or support independent bookstores and get Hot Flashes 2 through www.bookpassage.com
Thank you to the editors of CleanSheets.com and Hot Flashes 2: more sexy little stories and poemsfor publishing this story on line and in print, respectively.
Tonight we plucked that apricot moon
and ate it,
not in a gulp,
but with long laps of tongues,
carving of teeth,
squeezing nectar against palettes
till it trickled
Thank you to the editors Linda Watanabe McFerrin and Laurie McAndish King for first publishing this in Hot Flashes 2.
Begin with oil of olives
glistening in the well of silver
pot licked by yellow flames.
After slicing smooth tan skin
from a thumb of ginger root,
sliver the rhizome, then crush
with the knife’s handle:
pungent juice crackles in oil.
Bulbous garlic cloves, pressed,
come next with white-stemmed leeks or
yellow onions that blur the edges of the room.
Soften these invitations to the tongue
then add earthen vegetables–carrots,
burdock, potatoes, beets–thinly sliced
to lend warm tones as they sauté ten minutes,
then another five with chopped cabbage
and slant-cut yellow wax, Chinese long,
or Blue Lake beans. Raise the flame to blue.
Add water till these swim
beneath the surface,
then hijiki from the East,
fresh basil from the West,
and for sweetness shared,
several capfuls of molasses
poured into the swirling center.
Bring this medley to a boil,
turn the flame low,
simmer ten more.
While this cooks, stir half a teaspoon
of yellow, red, or mellow white miso
in a little broth till smooth,
invisible enzymes released in a porcelain bowl.
To this add a teaspoon of tahini, lemon to taste,
three ladles of soup, then bless
the miracle of hands and mouth.
Thank you to the editors of Marin Poetry Center Anthology, volume six for first publishing this poem.