The collision in Needles seems to have affected me more than I thought.  At first I thought that just time was off, sort of "on hold" but it appears to be much more.  I was confused by the waiting for the insurance company and more than annoyed by the police report that appears to be the opposite of the actuality.  But the physical assault was more than it appeared and is affecting my psyche.

Its seems that my vision is somewhat blurred and my heart hasn't been right.  I don't know what may be attributed to the blow to my head when I was thrown from the bike or the aftershock which saw my blood pressure drop to 45/30 and my heart rate drop to 40 beats per minute.  The fact is, I just haven't been quite right...though some would say, "What's new?".

Writing also has been in limbo.  I don't know if it is because of this lack of clarity or because of the concerns of pomposity, ego, and repetition of those things said so many times before with so much more vigor and art than I can muster.  It may be too that I really don't want to do this...its harder than I ever imagined. 

Oh well..."Keep on the Sunnyside of Life"!  

It looks like I'll head to New York for the next week...it'll be good to see Barbara and the boys. I do miss the lil' devils.  Priceline isn't what it used to be.

I've been trying to compose two new poems...one about a wondrous cloud near Winslow that was like giant angle wings...the other about the last full moon rise over the Truchas Peaks....these things are so difficult...wonder why?

Orcas Island, Gate of the Strait of Georgia

It was a propitious accident.  The morning mist obscured the sea so I changed my daybreak sojourn and rather than amble through the wetted woods set out to mosey on the cobbled beach.  The tide was far out exposing vast expanses of  perfectly formed pebbles mostly black, but some of ochre, alabaster, jade green and blood red.  Some too were speckled.  Though I have never seen, so I've been told, the starfish populated North Sea floor of glacier rubble is such as this.

It is typical in this area that one should seek semi-precious agate as one does amber on the Danish coast.  Perhaps this is to brighten ones disposition in this land of gray and green where one is seldom bothered by pesky sunshine.  I, too, had acquired this past time as the concentration required to find these nuggets within the carpet of stones relieved me of my thoughts of macro economics, theosophical riddles and other nagging burdens of my lot in life, especially the knowledge that my fellow humans were awaiting my comment so that life could progress meaningfully.  Let them wait!

Distracted from my quest by what I mistook as the playful yelps of a seal, I ventured down the sloping beach to get a view of this mammalian cousin in the wild.  With primordial fear I glimpsed the jet black sea wing cutting the mist seemingly leaving speed trails.  I surmise the seal was crying in distress as its life was surely nearly over.

Looking at my boots reflecting on the purposefulness of this most natural occurrence I spotted three articles that aroused my artistic sensibilities.  Why two seashells and a piece of seaweed did so, I'm not sure; suffice, I gathered them and brought them back to my cabin study for investigation and to sketch them into my notebooks for posterity.

The first article (and article they turned out to be) was a small shell of a species unknown to me and not identifiable  within my travel library.  A limpet to be sure but so exquisitely and perfectly formed I marveled at its fashioning.  Upon this tiny shell (11mmX9mm) was growing an acorn barnacle such that it appeared as a forward horn and two tiny "wings" of kelp to the rear and flanking the barnacle.  So much that this item appeared that of the helm of some nautical Mercury.  The underside revealed a ring of a soft resilient material not unlike a miniature inner-tube which I mistakenly presumed was part of the animal that had inhabited this shell.  When I prodded it with my forefinger an immediate suction attachment occurred.

The second shell was as unique as the first.  Nearly as thin as a needle and approximately 32mm in length it was spiraled in a brilliant vermilion and silverish nautilus twist.  It appeared at first glance that the sea had carved a hole in the shell at the foot so that it looked as a gauntlet.  Curiously, this shell had impaled a piece of seaweed about three inches long.  I amazed how the seaweed had tangled itself into a nearly perfect rope.

But it was the third item that truly startled the psyche.  Seemingly a piece of kelp that had folded.  I carefully unfolded the kelp to discover it was about 25cm long about 2 cm wide with an elliptical hole in the center.  I laughed, "a little poncho", I said aloud.  I grabbed my magnifying lens and looked closely, indeed it was a poncho for it had been carefully hemmed and stitched.  

I jumped to my feet.  I had absconded with the ensemble of a diminutive sentient sea creature.  What a discovery, proof of merpeoples!  My thoughts raced haphazardly, the implications were enormous...what if?  Obviously, the little person had left its garb in the tide to stay wet much as a human child leaves its clothing on the beach to stay dry when enjoying a swim.  The heavy thick mist probably kept it from excessive dehydration during its venture.

I quickly gathered its gear and ran full bore to the beach carefully returning the items to as close the location of their original dispersal.  It was then I noticed the cairns of colored pebbles about 3" high and about 8' apart under the shallow.  This was a highway for these folks to the upper world.  Indeed amazing.  I hid myself behind a drift wood tree of great diameter.  Was I too late to capture sight of this creature as it returned to its world.  Could I communicate with it?  I thought of Robinson Crusoe and Friday.

There it was!  At first I was so shocked I could not analyze what I saw.  From first impression it appeared to be a mermaid as in a fairy tale.  Since it was barely 6" long  I chuckled at the rumors of interspecies marriage.  But, it appeared as beautiful and womanly as any statue or image.  A golden skinned creature with smooth not scaly breast, greenish scaled tail, bright yellow "hair", and sea green eyes.  On its belly it was holding with fingered fins a small shell with three ripe black berries which it was carrying back to the sea.  

It was then that I realized my anthropomorphic view was totally wrong.   I was seeing what I wished to see.  The merperson was of an invertebrate species, the beautiful breasts and other "human" characteristics were on its back. Though, this didn't make it any less sentient or attractive as it slithered.  It made some sense, as I mused, lancelets are the oldest of genus, perhaps occupying this planet for a billion years. Certainly, over that much time they could or might evolve a sentient form.  Though not snakes, they are often mistaken for them...could it have been a lancelet in the garden...a mermaid temptress?

So enrapt was I by these cosmic contemplations I did not notice the sea fog obscure all view of the creature.  I leapt to my feet and ran to the sea edge but all was gone.  The tide had come in sufficiently to obliviate even the cairns.

I now sit on the driftwood log writing this memoir.  It is with deepest despair that I consider my discovery will be thought merely the fancy or dementia, to be laughed at in sympathy, of one "lost" in the woods, such as the Sasquatch and other legends of these North Woods.  

Orcas Island, Gate of the Strait of Georgia

Late August 1921

Bright sunshine and a gentle spirit belied a day of disaster, a day of cascading calamities.

It began with the morning post and a letter from an unknown, at least to me, publishing house.  Though several houses and journals have enquired; I only publish through my university press and of course the Naturalist for articles that might help the masses better understand the realities of their existence and throw away the cowl of superstition.

I nearly had a conniption as I looked at my addressed name, no titles or well earned honorifics and worse yet, initials! It read insultingly, W.C. Fields, at the North Beach, Orcas Island, State of Washington, U.S.A.  I reflected on my dear departed mother who had named me, glad she had not seen this. I wondered how H.G. Wells and Elliot accepted such, though, it was clear that a pornographer such as Lawrence would wish to be simply D.H. 

But greater horror was to be found in the abominable contents.  I have filed the letter but excerpt it here:

"My Dear W.C.," it began!  

"Thank you for entering our writing contest "Fairies".  Though your piece is not adequate for publication, as we promised, we shall provide critique of your artistry."

"The piece you have provided leaves much to be desired.  The style reminds us of the stilted works of an academic uncaring of the reader.  Who can tolerate such as 'absconded with the ensemble of a diminutive sentient sea creature'."  

The central character has no depth, we have no idea as to his identity, his loves, his youth, his passions, his, as the French so artistically put it "rason d'etra" (that means "reason to be")"...and on and on it went, poor grammar and missed spelled French.

"The subject is certainly fanciful, too fanciful.  Not only is it beyond belief and the scope of our contest, but mermaids as snakes is as repellant as fairies as insects.  No one even wishes to think such things much less read them."....and on.

"You really have no talent and should not consider any career in this field even as an amateur.  Perhaps, if you are inclined, pottery or basket making maybe a more suitable form of expression."

I seethed, not so much from the inanities of the asinine commentary, but I had been violated!  How had my journal entry found its way to the hands of a publisher of cutesy washer women diversions?

Storming, I left the porch settee of my cabin and walked to the "House".  Poor Mrs. Gibson was sitting on her veranda flanked by her two brown dogs, great beasts of some breed of retriever unknown to me but common to this island.  Her guards rather than sentinels ran wagging tailed to me expecting their usual pets and scratchings behind the ears, but, I had no kindness at that moment and am not a dog lover at heart anyway, though I normally do not deny them affection.

My face must have shown my wrath.  Mrs. Gibson reached for her cane attempting to stand as I hit the first step on stride, but fell back to her chair.

"No need to get up Mrs. Gibson."

"Thank you, Dr. Fields, but you appear so agitated." she said, her words broken by the Parkinsons and of that timbre of the very elderly.

"I fear Mrs. Gibson, that my privacy has been violated.  I must ask your assistance in discovering the perpetrator and rectifying this."

"Your privacy?  That is inexcusable."  She blew on a silver whistle she carried about her neck.  Both dogs immediately sat at attention.  I concerned that this hoopla might be too much for Mrs. Gibson's frail health and wondered if another method should be employed to mend my ego, but it was too late.

Jones, the caretaker, rounded the drive responding to his masters whistle.  Himself near doddering, perhaps 85, a tall lodge-pole thin half-breed with grayed hair to his belt and fashioned into a ponytail by a leather and seashell decorated thong.   Jones did not accept Mister or any other given name, when addressed such he would respond, "No, just Jones." I assumed it was an ancient North West tribal issue similar to the Papuan's of New Guinea, who when confronted with a photograph of the tribe can not recognize themselves, a name is simply loaned by the tribe for life.

"Please assemble the chamber staff here on the veranda."

In short order the girls were lined up facing me as if for inspection.  All had white dresses with embroidered flowers and tiny aprons.  It was a lovely site of blossoming youth framed by tall conifers and the massive beams and pillars of hand hewn timbers.

"Who is house-keeper of the "Georgia" cottage?", (each cottage was named, "Georgia" my lodgings for this stay) Mrs. Gibson squeaked but with authority.

"I am." answered a tiny miss of exquisite form  perhaps 17 years in age.  She had deep brown almost black hair waist length and brilliant green eyes.  An almost imperceptible but intoxicating odor, it reminded me, for some reason, of the estrogen experiments conducted in laboratory.

"You others may attend your duties, Jeanette, please remain here."

"Jeanette, Dr. Fields has issued a serious complaint."

She looked at me, I melted.  True, I was far too old at 32 for such as her.  Why, I would even be construed "mature" for an Irishman, were I to be one.  Best to be "fatherly" in this case, though my Penny was far away, nearly as far away on this continent as one could be, with her family in Cutler, Maine.  I attempted, unsuccessfully,  to control the thought, "while the cats away...".  I simply reasoned; what could we possibly talk about, Jeanette and I, our class and education being so disparate?

"Jeanette", I intervened, "my journal has been rifled and an entry forwarded to a disreputable enterprise."

"Oh no sir, they are a fine group.  I read their magazine each month, I love to read.  I just wanted to help, you seem so quiet and lonely.  I just wanted to do something for you."

So sincere she seemed with downcast eyes.  I couldn't imagine that I would appear self-effacing or withdrawn, especially to one such as this. I presumed I would seem dominating mentally, physically and morally.  With intrigue to discover more of her perspective, I queried, "Go on, explain yourself?"

"I was tiding the study, dusting the desk.  The book was open, honest it was.  An'.. an'...your hand is so strange...almost like what I think what'd they call it...calligraphy...anyways its wonderful the way the lines are on the paper. Half script, half printed it reminded me of the little waves in the channel and the breakers on the shore."

"I couldn't help myself but read it, just that open page...honest.  I'd seen our little people, I think.  At least what you described seemed like what I'd seen...some words were to big for me."  She looked up at me.  Was that a look of wanting?  My God!

"I 'membered the contest.  An' thought this is so wonderful these words, and he, thats you'd never do for yourself and its a whole hundred dollars for the best story...So while you went to Eastsound for a pint, it was my lunch, Mrs. Gibson, I copied it and sent it off...I'm sorry Dr. Fields, I was only trying to help...I didn't steal it, I put your name to it."

"Oh, Jeanette." while shaking my head in thought.

"Mrs. Gibson, I believe no real harm has been done.  Jeanette does appear to truly believe her excess was to be to my benefit.  A good Samaritan should not be punished, even if wrong. Perhaps educated, without reprimand?"  Mrs. Gibson shook her aged head in assent.

"Jeanette, I have many wondrous books in my travel library. Several might interest you.  My evening hours are free, if you wish I could lend you some,"  I thought of the luscious fig scene in Lawrence, "and could read to you and explain some of the more obscure passages."

Her eyes opened in wide-joy, "You'd do that for me?"

"Yes I would", I smiled.    Perhaps she'd appreciate my etchings too?

As I complete this days entry, I ponder who has seduced whom?  Certainly, she will come this eve.  I will read the works of Lawrence aloud, not for her for she is already moist with anticipation but for myself.  A flagellation for the moral calamity about to be fall me?

I will be her first, I know.  Not perhaps in the most physical way, surely a farm boy emboldened has done his duty, a beauty such as this would be wrong to pass.  No, but I will be the first to attempt to extract her softness, to take her unsealed womanhood.

We will sit on the couch.  I see it now. At first she will be respectfully on her pillow.  Then she will bring her legs up from the floor tucked slightly beneath her, leaving her shoes on the deck, her feet bared and calf exposed, now facing me, eyes bright, knee touching my thigh, I will read on.  She will interrupt, "how beautiful..."she'll say, and reach over to touch the words on the page, looking up now so close.  I will have no choice but to brush back her hair and its whispering compelling scent.  We will kiss and with her being she will take all thought from me, and give me a moments true peace.

Tomorrow, then I will have to leave this place foreshortening my stay.  I will have exposed all this island has left to offer or have exposed all my soul I care to.  I will wonder if I have left any good here.  Does the orca grieve the pup playing in the straights?

In fifteen or twenty years I'm sure I will recall young Jeanette or maybe run into her on some High street and know then whether I am a more complete man because of a night long past.  Whatever, I refuse to wallow in what might have been.