May 20

Outside my window a carpenter bee joyfully cannot decide the directino to fly in, as long asi t is in this one plane of x + y. Beyond, in the yacht yard, great machines move boats like whales or sick elephants, assuring them the water is returning soon and they will be in pain no longer. And the creek itself beyond that is patient as small crafts deliberately move zenith-ward. Here in this space all movement collides, a harbor not just for the racing vessels but for the mechanisms of physics and magic of regular gravity. The yacht yard is a harbor for dreams - a safe lot to do only what you want to do - come in for the day to buy bread n your way back to sea, run around caretaking the details of a wood craft, fine stitch a sail, master plan a race. From here you can leave at any time, from here we are all still vikings, greek argonauts searching for our own fleece to keep us satisfied in the sea's refusal to settle. It is the constant change that soothes, the flux of chemistry that the shore brings.