Camping Trip, August 12, 2018

  • Light, born inside the sun, spends years traveling, hits a wooden plank and reflects, partially, into a photo-censor, to be stored as bits on magnetic surfaces, or waves of neuron information, or are recorded with paper and ink, later [editor’s note: now] to be turned into more bits.
  • A quiet harbor marina, dozens of boats bobbing in unison, the loud restaurant dominators the auditory, until a small Cesna interferes over head. Summer.
  • The fight was even-matched, we gave as good as was pummeled upon us, when finally a good guess turned the tide and won the war.
  • The beers are yellow-orange and light-brown, the latter a cool cask draft, hoppy and bitter both.
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Seattle Art Fair, August 5th, 2018

  • Oil tanker, stranded in the desert, bleeding rust onto the burning sand. A second tanker, bleached, worn down to iron ore, the plateua around it white, radiant.
  • Animal-faced children, masked adults stare out of raised canvases, making my neck tilt back to see them full. Whatever. Boo!
  • I see it four exhibits ahead, other side of the aisle. I pretened not to notice, steal away quick glances, play hard-to-get and plot a course that winds through the competition. I narrow my focus, try not to think of or look at the object of my desire, work up emotionally to seeing it in all its glory, but only after pining after it for a sufficient time.

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