The Same Water

How humble I felt this morning, walking along the sunny coast, gazing out at the Pacific, blue and serene as it ushered pointed sailboats in and out of the marina. The beach culture-- families with their rainbow colored tents and wagons full of kids' toys, and singles fresh and clean, their shaded eyes glancing curiously at other singles--seemed innocent, unassuming. And yet, a subtle sense of vigilence made itself known, nipping us on the ankle like a disturbed sand flea. For we are aware, most of us, that while we bask in the sun's warmth, or bat the volleyball over the net, or navigate our course across the waves, another beach, another ocean, on the other side of this land, is being ravaged and pillaged and plundered by the sky, by the very same water we all eventually share.

Departure

*This is a very very very rough and incomplete draft...in case anyone is reading.

Ushered in from the elbow of a freeway, we arrived by road, rail, wings and wheels, to materialize in small, gentle swarms, surrounded by cicadas and crickets, tall evergreen cathedrals, and sturdy stone structures that would harbor our lives for the next two weeks. We clutched our shiny wireless technology, chargers tucked carefully inside our bursting bags, and marched confidently across the hot turf. We had the power to make history on our various i- and non-i- gadgets, yet the unspoken verdict: ballpoint pens and spiral notebooks were essential. This was writers' camp. Ahem. Writers' boot camp.

Things happened. We moved into dorm rooms. Unpacked suitcases, or made a conscious choice to live out of the suitcase. We pulled crisp white sheets over unyielding mattresses. Those of us spending our second year here reunited with old friends. First-timers met everyone. Not gradually--no, not at all--workshops commenced in the glare of fluorescent lights. We talked. We read. We laughed. We wrote. We read aloud. Through the contagion of commentary, we related.

Now that furious fortnight has slipped from our grasp, a kite lost in the clouds, and we find ourselves packing, saying good-bye. Tomorrow, we leave this carefully staged world to chase the abyss of uncertainty that orchestrates our real lives, where each day, we must wake up and reinvent ourselves: teachers, parents, journalists, critics, dancers, painters, musicians, athletes, foragers, architects, doctors, dramatists.

The page is blank. Your cursor is blinking. An audience waits.

Where I'm From, modeled after George Ella Lyon

I am from telephone wire, from duct tape and WD-40. I am from the mildew on the bathtub caulking. (Gray, peeling, it smelled like mold.) I am from the planted marigolds, the fragile impatiens whose loose petals the squirrels pilfered each spring. I’m from sweet bologna and cream cheese, from Regina and Daniel. I’m from the don’t-talk-about-it’s and the don’t-tell-them-I-said-so’s, from go outside and get the stink blown off of you. I’m from Our Father, who art in Heaven, and fourteen stations I drew myself. I’m from Grand Marnier on the rocks and the baby grand, after-dinner mints and cloth napkins. From the deep scar of my mother’s Cesarean to the beauty parlor in my grandma’s basement. On my dresser stood a porcelain menagerie, chips of paint gone missing like a gypsy ancestry.

I am from those disturbances—dishes clanking in the kitchen sink—planned yet accidental.