Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Sculpture

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I settle at a table under a small tree. Leafy shadows dance on the tabletop, circular and marked with a giant “e.” Cyclists pass on the path before me, leisurely tourists on rented cruisers, road bike commuters eager to get to their destination.

A woman dressed in black lays out a large wool blanket on the grass. Eyes closed, palms up, she reclines onto her back, her face, her posture an offering to the sun that warms overhead. Everyone seems content on a day like today, gratitude easy for a city freed from months of grey with sun glinting off emerald waters, ferries crisscrossing and sailboats venturing to the horizon.

Pedestrians stop to consider the sculptures in the park. I hear a woman point to my table, the adjacent tree and benches. “It spells Love & Loss,” she explains to the elderly man hunched at her side. A glowing ampersand rotates above the installment on the other side of the tree. She goes on: “The tree is actually the ‘v.’ It spells ‘Love’ from this perspective on the path. If you climb the hill and view it from there, you see the word ‘Loss.'” He grunts in response, unimpressed.

I sit and write on the “e,” consider the love, the loss that marks a day, a season’s transition. The people pass, they soak it all in. Another person stops to consider the art: “I think it’s supposed to spell out ‘Love,’ but I’m not sure where the ‘e’ is.” She puzzles over this with her companion. My notebook, my novel, my bag, my water bottle are strewn over the ‘e’ as I work.

I gather all my things, make room for the hidden letter as a tanker ship enters the bay. I climb the grassy hill. Time for a new perspective.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: California

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The light wanes as we step out of the hotel conference room, eyes blurry from hours of lectures, Powerpoint slides flashing, acronyms swirling, EKGs dancing. The sun has set but the purple light of dusk hovers in the sky. The moon is rising over the palm trees lining the street, thin stems with bushy tops, as if each were adorned with floppy wigs or jester’s caps. The air is cool but not cold in way the sky is shaded but not dark.

We make our way to the cove after dinner, can just discern the rough waves crashing onto the rock face. We want to feel the fine granules of sand between our toes, stow them home in our carry-on bags tucked away in our shoe soles and jean pockets.

We hear the seals before we see them, sharp intonations directed upward, all around. They squeal and shriek their protestation to our presence. We are intruders and suppliers, they must love and hate us. One seal beaches several yards away. We point and exclaim like paparazzi, eager to elevate the novel to a venerated plane.

***

The sand on the soles of my feet, the sudden coolness of the water washing over my toes, the Pacific wild in its winter norm, tame by the time it reaches the California shore.

People-watching is paramount along the walkway that winds parallel to the strip of sand. Surfers haul their boards under their arms as if the equipment is another appendage, wetsuits peeled to their waists, hair dripping to their shoulders. Rented bikes with fat tires and curved handlebars in candy coated colors weave in and out of pedestrian traffic. Tourists unsteady as they cycle, unsure on their winter legs in the foreign sunlight.

Twenty-something revelers pack the margarita bars, sipping slushy neon drinks in oversized goblets. They laugh easily, their cheeks crimson they lean into each other suggestively, throw their heads back into the bright sun. A girl in a green vest pulls a wagon filled with Girl Scout cookies, stacked Samoas and Thin Mints, boxes disappear into eager hands.

Umbrellas and beach towels dot the pale sandscape. Sunday afternoon revelers exult, even here, in a warmer than expected day. I close my eyes and see a glow, rouge-hot, yellow afire.

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