The Narrative Image

Saturday was a hot day in Portland, especially for out of shape fat men… …as opposed to fat men with chiseled abdomens I guess. It seemed to be a good day to seek refuge on the water, so I headed to Ridgefield, Washington to see if there might not be something interesting close to the wildlife refuge. Mindful of the sunburn I gave myself on my last paddling expedition, I made a point to stop for some suntan lotion at a local Ridgefield store. While beer seemed to be priced competitively, a little bottle of suntan lotion about the size of a pat of margarine was priced at nine bucks. I bought the beer. The kayak launch is located on the edge of Lake River (I know, it’s confusing…is it a lake or a river?) I stayed to the right of the broad channel, out of the way of ski boats and other motorized water craft, the wakes of which made an otherwise uneventful section of river somewhat eventful. On my left, at about eight tenths of a mile, I passed the Bachelor Island Slough. At

A blue looking-glass A stiff breeze A sky’s reflection shattered An island of wild trees amidst a lock-step sea of cash crops Excited cartoon bees before improbable flowers Grass batons conducting wind-songs Somehow reassuring to find plants confounded …and happy old buildings perpetually surprised. Born of architecture and order, but open to new experiences in its twilight years This barn without people is like a body without a soul Giant PEZ dispensers Hay delivery system After playing softball on Sunday, I find I empathize with this old house. Lively colors in a dead house Tree atolls, but not so metaphorical this time Traitor decoy…friendless and alone Blinds as elaborate as the Monitor and the Merrimac, designed for a contest of wits between men and ducks. Despite years of hunting refinements, the ducks are still not allowed to use weapons. That was a big carp…really. I heard five eagles taking baths. They resented the invasion of their privacy. A b

My dad died a long time ago when I was away at college. Ever since, Father’s Day hasn’t been one of the more outstanding celebratory days. It isn’t because I can’t remember a lot of positive things about my dad, it’s more about a hole that I can’t seem to measure and which never really fills up. Cancer introduced itself to my dad back in the mid sixties and then proceeded to stalk him for almost two decades before cutting him down at the age of 48. So anyway, being in a melancholy mood, I thought I’d take a stab at writing a piece that might fit into the inspirational genre. Knuckle-prints in the Sand One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with Monkey-Cam. Many scenes from our hiking adventures flashed across my memory. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was only one. This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I really could have used a friend, I could see on