The wind is still whooshing around and everyone's had enough. It's the first topic of conversation, before how are you? rather it's, this wind is crazy. I don't think our winds have a name. Other winds do. Mistral. Sirocco. Santa Ana. It's cool again and the sky is greying up. I'm starting to unwind. The anthology's been sent to the printer and until the prepress copy arrives, I have nothing else to do. Last night around 10:30, designer Lesley and I sat in her office (just down the dirt road from my house) and tried to resolve the latest of the glitches, we suddenly started yawning and suggesting that after we'd finished we should drive to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge and jump off! Or at least bring a bottle of champagne (last year's edition is a finalist for a Southwest Book award) and smash it against the rocks. Then we couldn't stop laughing because we'd rather drink it. And we did not jump off the bridge - which isn't funny at all because people do jump off that bridge. The river is 300 feet below - a ribbon of green (or brown during spring snowmelt) and all rock outcrops on the way down. Instead I came home and fell into a soft bed. This afternoon to Wired Cafe - too listless to write in the notebook I'd brought with me. It was warm, windy, pleasant, Billy Holiday on the stereo, a couple of guys playing chess, others at their laptops. Water music from the fountain splashing over a glistening rock into the pond to which the koi have been moved for the summer
When it sings all my body listens,
the little hairs dawdle
in calm eddies.
Pascale Petit (from What the Water Gave Me (V)
No comments:
Post a Comment