veiling vesicles

I am at one of my favorite old coffee shops, Palio, where the tables are large and made of wood, of library ilk, and the coffee cups are the size of soup bowls. Medical students come here to talk about plasma and proteins, the various variations of isotopes. I wandered here and have spent the morning downloading applications for writers' residencies that I want to do next year, one in a snowy, creek-side A-frame in Sisters, Oregon, and another on the Oregon coastal range. Osprey and heron friends. Shrews. Chopped wood and food-stuffs, take me there.

I've also spent the morning shopping for lap harps. Since it's uncertain as to when I will ever have regular access to a piano again, I think a harp would be a worthy alternative. I played harp growing up, and it is quite similar to the piano, in a structural and behavioral sense. How you splay your hands across it. An instrument of peculiar intimacy, when held.

Today is another canopy, although one that is more tightly cinched by the spikes of pleasurable work, a tent teetered only by the winds within. Book layout for our first Ecclesia chapbooks, research, perhaps a short respite to rake the leaves and sweep the deck, crafting questions for my interview with Corey Arnold tomorrow evening over dinner. Life is loam, life is ebullience.

Mr. and I are fantasizing about taking a road trip to a shitty fisherman's wharf kind of town next weekend, getting a cheap motel room, and hanging out with surly sea-men in smoky bars. The only thing is, my license is suspended (I drive my friend's cars illegally, regardless), and neither of us has a car, but I don't think either of those things should stop us from accomplishing our mission. I want to stomp around in the floam of the ocean and argue over the difference between flotsam and jetsam.

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