And so it is time for the muse to heed the call of the ocean. I will be taking a little sojourn to the Oregon Coast for eight wonderful days. If you click the picture above, it will take you to the Cannon Beach Webcam - where you can get a glimpse of the place that inspires me to no end.

I promise a veritable tsunami of writing upon my return.

Until then, I am reposting a couple of journal entries. One, having to do with Cannon Beach itself. The other, just a whimsical moment that still makes me smile when I think of it.

"You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there
with his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this......"
- Pablo Neruda -

~*~Foxfires~*~

------------------------------

The storm winds were already bending the limbs of the trees as I drove the winding road up to the cliff's edge. Just moments before, I had been standing in our oceanside suite watching the darkness take over the horizon. I grabbed my camera, forgot my jacket, and knew that I could capture some fantastic shots of the brooding ocean if I were fast enough.

The parking lot was empty when I reached the top. The wind swept up off the water in cold blasts, and I immediately regretted not having a coat. I held my camera close as I took to the trail, walking the familiar track against the hillside. I glanced over the rough hewn wooden fence, to the rocks and water far below. There was no sand visible as the waves lashed the bank. White foam streaked the water with deceivingly tranquil strands.

I rounded the hill and walked to the dead end of the trail. The wooden fence gave way to steel gridwork. There was fresh dirt where another part of the bank had slid away to the sea. I wondered how much more this storm would demand of the mountain I stood upon.

Lifting my gaze beyond the cliff's edge, the Pacific was before me. The wide blue sea had grown dark with the gathering of clouds. I looked through the camera's lens and focused in on the whisps of stark white fog spinning in contrast to the black horizon. It was mesmerizing... this dance of the elements. It seemed the battered evergreens were releasing their minions to ward the shoreline from the coming storm.

The wind held no comforting scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys down in the village. The only thing it carried was the bitter cold from distant parts of the deep water, where only the salt survives. It picked up in speed, and pushed me back a little. I should have obeyed the gentle warning then and there, but I didn't.

I turned my attention to the sculpt of the shore curving back toward the coastal town, and was about to frame in my last shot when I heard another sound beneath the rush of wind. I lowered my camera and looked back out at the ocean. The wall of black was closer... much closer. I could measure the waves with just a glance, and watched them disappear into the clouds.... but I had never seen clouds so thick right on top of the water. And then it began.... an augmented hiss like the wind raking over millions of dry leaves. The back of my neck tingled as I watched in amazement, this wall coming.... visibly.....rolling toward me. The hiss grew deeper, gained strength, and suddenly I thought of the trains that rolled through the valley at night. No need to slow for cars when the towns are sleeping.

I started running. The trail, about four feet wide at best, suddenly seemed like a gymnast's balancing beam....totally unforgiving. I was sprinting, aware of my heart with every single pounding stride. The train was right behind me... roaring with the promise that it would plow right over me if I were to falter in the slightest way. Gritting my teeth I came to the end of the trail and jumped down a small bank to the grass. I bolted into the nearest picnic shelter and pivoted to look out toward the park. I barely had time to swallow back the lump in my throat when the roar hammered down on me, and my view of the park was blinded by a blur of white. I steadied myself against the picnic table as I watched golf ball sized hail come thundering down, rolling into the edge of the shelter, and pummeling it's roof. Adrenalin raced through my senses, pushing my heart into a flutter. The green grass was gone. In it's place was a growing layer of ice, and I wanted to cover my ears. This was pure power! Nature slamming into the coast, and there I was...just a speck trembling beneath a tiny wooden roof.

And then, just as quick as the blink of a power outage, it was over. It seemed the last of the hail fell all at once, and the wild drumming ceased. The abrupt silence gave me a chill even worse than the roar. I hesitated to leave my shelter... and so I stood there, laughing a little too high pitched, not wanting to think of the consequences had I been caught against the bare hillside.

At last, I walked out under the bare sky. The hail crunched beneath my shoes, and as I looked up, I saw a swirl of mist and blue. I picked my way back up the slope to the trail, reaching out to steady myself against the fencing. There was nothing but clear sky out toward the horizon. The storm had rushed in, crashed against the coast, and raced over the tops of the trees to the mainland. I laughed through a few deep breaths, feeling my pulse finally start to slow down.

A faint rainbow arched from the south shore across to the northern cove.

Sometimes pictures can't replace a thousand words.



-------------------------------------------

I heard the sound of wind chimes today.

It was a peculiar thing to hear as the snow fell all around me. Normally, the chimes are taken down in autumn - and their silvery bells aren't heard again until the first winds of spring.

I must have forgotten one....

...because as I was out beneath the bare limbed oak tree gathering kindling from the wood pile, the liquid tones filled the air as a swirl of icy wind rounded down through the canyon.

It stole my breath away.

It was such a delicate sound... watery. As if perhaps someone ran their fingers along the slim metal strands to bring the chimes to life. But when I glanced up at the porch where they were hanging, there was no one there....

I went on gathering the wood, until my arms were full and I struggled to open the door back into the house. My cat slinked around my ankles, and looked up at me with that silent 'meow' she gives me. It reminded me of a vague dream I had before waking this morning.

When at last the fire took to the logs and spiralled up toward the chimney, I closed the glass doors and stood in the glow a moment. I could hear the chimes again, and glanced over to see the snow slanting across the window. The wind was coming from the North.

Out in the orchard, there were the black dots of crows sitting on top of the tree props. They were hunkered against the storm, their wings held like a mysterious man's cape to the rain. Why did they stay?

I fancied that they too were listening to the wind chimes... hypnotized by the sound. Called out from their warm nests in the evergreens, to sit in the iced winds and listen to the accidental melody. Maybe they were dazzled by the snow, too stunned to fly.

I lit my amber incense and the candles on the low darkwood book case. The flames cast soft shadows over the carved elephants from India who guard the Mark Twain collection. The scented smoke slipped past the watercolor painted in the 1800's, making it seem like the small boat being guided out into the waters of Venice was gliding through mist.

I gazed at the old travel poster of the Sahara hanging on the wall... the bedouin man standing on a hill, watching the train pass through the sands at night. I imagined there was no snow outside, no crows braced against the storm. I inhaled the amber and imagined the wind chimes melding with the sound of drums. Cymbals on a dancer's fingers. Silks fluttering in spiced winds.

I was suddenly transported onto that train, my fingers pressed against the glass as I peered out at the dune to see the light of the bedouin's fire. The flames were high, the desert palms caught in the glow. Dancers swayed in the shadows, the golden threads woven through their skirts catching the light.

The sparks were rising high into the night sky, to be lost among the stars.

Before I knew it, I was standing out on the sand still warm from the long day of sunlight. I was running up the dunes, toward the sound of singing, the lure of drums.... the firelight flashing between the dancer's bodies....

....the sound of wind chimes.

~*~

I blinked as the poster came back into focus. There was my bedouin man, draped in his robes, staring down at the train. I looked out the window... and the snow had stopped. The crows were gone....

...and I couldn't stop smiling.

It was a joyous reunion.

While you wait for the next installment of my story....

The Bee-keeper came out last night.

I was roused from deep 3:00 a.m. sleep by the clunk and hum of an old tractor.

I smiled as I rolled over and peered out of the floor-to-ceiling window that is directly next to my side of the bed. I could see the shine of yellow headlights working their way slowly up one of the rows of apple trees. It would have been disconcerting if I had not known from years previous what this early morning ruckus was about.

The bee-keeper transports his precious workers only at night. They sleep while he trundles them across the grassy inclines of the hill we live on, depositing them in strategic positions so that by morning they will wake to find acres of newly budding blooms to visit.

My husband mumbled something and tugged the blankets up over his head, but the dog and I kept watch on the bee-keeper. Something about this yearly ritual delights me. It signals the true beginning of Spring. The awakening of the apple and cherry trees. And the need to tread carefully across the lawn when dandelions are afoot.

I don't know who the bee-keeper is. Always shrouded in darkness, I recognize him only by the sound of the tractor and the shine of lights on the trees. And little does he know that off in the distance, someone watches him with sleepy interest... a smile given for a little tradition that is kept between two strangers, the moon, and the honeybees.

(*scroll down to Wednesday, March 31st for the beginning of the story if you have not already read it.*)

THE ARRIVAL - Chapter Two

The city had a pace to it as quick as the bloodstream after a brisk run. Streets bustled with cars and pedestrians, very much like a tangle of veins that lead to one giant pumping heart -- the Underground. Seraph couldn't imagine that even one more person could cram themselves into the white tiled tunnels. Claustrophobia loomed just one breath away from them all as the steady stream flowed to and from the central Tube lines below. She didn't dare slow her walk in order to take stock of her surroundings just yet. She had to laugh a little, as it was not unlike running with the bulls in Pamplona. But at least she would have plenty of time on the train to get her bearings, without the threat of being flattened in the process.

It was a good thing that the throng of people were all heading in the same basic direction she was. It made it easy to go with the flow, maneuvering through the ticket booths, the escalators, and onto the platform to wait for the train. She gave a sympathetic smile to a pair of tourists struggling with their luggage. The tiny wheels on the bottom of the overstuffed bags were only adding insult to injury, as it made the bags wobble like penguins when the tourists would drag it all forward.

At least she didn't have to worry about such a cumbersome process. She could directly thank the Elders for that. No matter what Passage it was, they always had everything arranged for her when she arrived. How this worked, she was uncertain... but she refrained from examining the matter too closely. The Elders took pleasure in spoiling her wherever she went, and she gladly accepted the benefits of being their Mediary.


She felt the train approaching before she heard it. A shift in the air, pushing outward, preceding the roaring whine of the tracks as the subway shot out of it's dark tunnel. It rolled to a stop, and she waited in the crowd for the doors to open. There had been the temptation to take a cab to Monmouth Street, but her main objective was to be in contact with as many people as possible. There was little chance of that in a cab, aside from the cab driver -- and so the decision was easy. However the eye contact, or lack thereof, made her agenda difficult. So many people kept their heads down, attention diverted, nose in their own business so to speak. But, it was nothing that a little initiative did not work out.

"Do you need help with that?" she asked, smiling to the tourists still wrestling with their luggage. The two young women looked up with haggard smiles in return. A few last stragglers bolted down the stairs and through the train's doors, and Seraph motioned for the women to hurry. "It's about to head out again, here... let's give it a heave-ho." They all three grabbed the handles of the unruly luggage and hoisted it up over the threshold.

A voice overhead droned on the loudspeaker. "Mind the gap. Please, mind the gap."

---------------------------------------------

The Covent Garden Hotel was unassuming where it sat in the middle of Monmouth Street. The tall brick building blended in with the rest of the shops, distinguished only by its black front and elegant gold lettering. Seraph brushed her hair neatly back behind an ear as she stepped up to the door, but before she could reach out for the handle, it swung open and a man on the other side motioned for her to enter.

She nodded to him, and noticed his head turn to follow her movements as she walked by. Her smile deepened at that, but she didn't return the gaze. Instead, she made her way through the lobby, to the front desk that was flanked on both sides with rich rose drapes, making it seem more like a theatre's stage than a place to check in. The wood of the desk was well oiled, the clock on the wall ticking in the comfortable silence. There was a plate of bright red apples on the counter, and Seraph took one, already thirsting for the taste of the crisp sweetness.

"Ah, hello there! Yes, welcome to the Covent Garden Hotel, may I help you?" said a woman. She appeared a moment later from a side door, her hair neatly pinned at the nape of her neck.

"Yes, I am Seraph Lore, I believe a room has been arranged for me?"

"Miss Lore... indeed! The Loft Suite. Oh you will be quite pleased with it I believe. It has been prepared for your arrival, if you would just sign our ledger here." With that the woman slid a large leather bound book around to receive Seraph's signature.

Seraph did so quickly, giving only a cursory glance at the other names penned in the book before smiling across at the woman. "So there is nothing else I need to do then, as far as payment?"

"No, Miss Lore... it has all been arranged for you. Stay as long as you wish, your first month has been paid, with credit ran on any further time you may need."

"Excellent. Thank you..." she paused, polishing the apple on her coat as she leaned in to read the name on the woman's gold lapel pin. "...Laurel. I have a feeling I will enjoy it here as well."





------------------------------

To be continued....
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

(A little bit of the fiction writing that I dabble in. I hope my readers enjoy. :) It's amatuer...but it's mine. Like my favorite fortune cookie once said.. "You create your own stage. The audience is waiting".)
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

"Sights seen in the mind's eye can never be destroyed"
Strabo (64 BC - AD 21)

THE PASSAGE - Chapter One



Seraph closed her eyes as she was told.

Her senses tingled with awareness as the sound of falling water grew louder, mimicked in a gentle touch upon her shoulder. Someone warmed her ear with a whisper, but before sense or reason could give the words shape, they faded into a place that held no form at all. Sound rushed out, as if being pulled through a small hole, leaving only thick quiet to fill the void.

Darkness cradled her. She felt the muted pump of her heart, and the velvet blackness caress her skin the way it did when someone stood too close at night. Was she falling, or flying? Maybe she was levitating.

'Or maybe', she thought, 'I have already arrived'.

The questions drifted in the same dreamy procession as leaves floating downstream, and yet there was no real need for answers. She knew this, for she had crossed over many times before. But regardless of her certainty, the questions always remained.

Or perhaps they were the answers all along.

--

"Open your eyes," a voice said.

It was as if a door were thrown open near the ocean, just in time to hear the seventh wave crash on the shore. A rush of tingles ran wildfire up her spine, while echoing words untangled themselves from her thoughts. She swayed as she felt solid ground beneath her feet and gulped the fresh air, tasting rain on her tongue.

The fading light in the sky eased into her vision. There were storm clouds darkening overhead, and a wind that spiraled down from them teased at her long black hair.

It was then that she heard the chanting. Women's voices, lilting in harmonic tones that seemed to rise and fall with the blowing wind. Before her, solitary on the sloping green plains, a ring of square stones almost triple her height. Torches had been thrust into the ground around them, their flames guttering wildly in the wind. She walked through the wet grass and pressed herself against one of the stones, circling around to the other side to shield herself from the storm. Shadows danced against the slabs of rock like ghosts of the women within the ring. Their hands reached up to the sky, their backs arched in offering. As Seraph stared, a peal of thunder rolled across the plain, and lightning sparked the bank of clouds. In a heartbeat she was blinded by it, clenching her eyes shut until the moment passed....

...but dizziness welled up in her core as the chill of the storm suddenly gave way to a press of hot, dry air. The next breath was laced with spice, and the sound of the women and thunder thinned out until it hissed like a thousand serpents. She pushed away from her brace against the stone and opened her eyes, squinting as she adjusted to brilliant sunlight flashing on pale dunes as far as she could see.

At her feet, a terrace of quarried stone spreading out like a mountain. Pulling her hair back away from her face, she picked her way across the platform of stone, following the call of a reedy voice. The heat blazed against her dusky skin, magnified by the massive granite blocks that had baked under the sun for hours. When she peered down the terraced slope, she saw a young man standing on a high ramp, draped in a pristine white robe and adorned with gold and lapis lazuli. Below him on a grand stairway, a dozen men worked in unison, their backs shining slick with sweat. Across the desert, a shadow of the pyramid stretched out to touch the distant sand, and Seraph knelt down to press her hands against the burning stone...

...but her fingers disappeared beneath the surface of water. Ripples from her touch fanned out through a mirror smooth pool, disrupting the perfect image reflected within. A cool breath of wind chased away the parched heat, and Seraph glanced up, following the line of water and cypress trees as they joined together in the distance beneath the pregnant swell of a palatial tomb. Silence fit the moment as moonlight glowed on the white marble dome and it's guardian minarets. A hint of a smile grew, the moon shining just as deeply in her pale green eyes. 'Such truth in beauty' she thought to herself as she looked back down into the reflecting pool. . .

. . . And saw the face of London's Clock Tower light up. It boomed the hour, and with each heavy chime Seraph felt herself center to the world around her. A double-decker bus roared by in a blur of red, and flashes from a tourist's camera lit up the sidewalk around her. It was raining again, and her brows perked slightly as she realized she was already carrying an umbrella. Flicking it open, she watched the flow of people on the sidewalk, peering over her shoulder as they disappearing down the stairs to Westminster Station. She tightened the scarf at her throat, a faint scent of sandalwood lifting up from her wrists. She looked down to see she was wearing a simple brown wrap skirt, lace up boots and a black duster that hung well past her knees.

"Perfect," she whispered, glancing up at the Clock Tower as she noted the time.

The passage was complete. They would be pleased.

Threading her way through the rush hour crowd, she tossed a coin to a busker.

He quickened the strum of his guitar to match her stride as she disappeared into London's Underground.
(To be continued)

2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

Two of my most beloved poems, by the same writer - Pablo Neruda. His words ring so true in my ears. If you are not familiar with his works, I highly recommend them. Vibrant and sensual, rich enough to taste. He has ruined me for all other poets.

POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~



And another for good measure. One of my favorites by him:

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~