Yes, this is a blog

At the seams of the coastland where cratered mud roams the pathways and the truculence of certain near amphibious bird species is met with laughing intrigue and breadcrumbs they sojourned, the two. On a task called exile or leisure or vocation. Marked on their schedules a dedication to step off the wheel on which they trudged and abscond together to a thing near sacramental in its colloquial reputation. That banded rite as old almost as mankind itself. Once it had been performed for subsistence only but now it was the relaxation of many who pine for the stringent customs of a bygone era reprised. For unfiltered air and sun and stinking shore. Reacquainting themselves with a discipline they might not ever have to know, a luxury that can abrade a man's contentment the way the leak of a busted faucet can set his mind to ruin. An itch. The single, small yearning of a muscle so atrophied it could scarcely be said to still be in the body at all. It was there, a remnant instinctual, but n...

But if I go to the east, he is not there; if I go to the west, I do not find him. When he is at work in the north, I do not see him; when he turns to the south, I catch no glimpse of him. But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold. My feet have closely followed his steps; I have kept to his way without turning aside. I have not departed from the commands of his lips; I have treasured the words of his mouth more than my daily bread. But he stands alone, and who can oppose him? He does whatever he pleases. He carries out his decree against me, and many such plans he still has in store. That is why I am terrified before him; when I think of all this, I fear him. God has made my heart faint; the Almighty has terrified me. Yet I am not silenced by the darkness, by the thick darkness that covers my face. (Job 23: 8-17)

It was the kind you'd use for long distance travel. Thick wheels set close together on a sturdy frame and a seat perched high, level with the steering frame which went down and curved at the sides like a ram's horns. You gripped the vertical handles and squeezed the brakes, the triggers. On a sharp decline it felt like straddling an arrow. Perfectly aimed and threaded into a gust of wind. A dry schooner with no propulsion but the strength of your legs and the curvature of the road. The long road. Her coach used to call them "Long Winders" as a joke. The kind of person whose discipline was performing a single activity, usually basic, for vast quantities of time. Much longer indeed than what any sane person would think reasonable. Marathon cyclists, runners, swimmers. They'd often have the same sort of sandblasted features to their faces. The winnowed brow and squinted eyelids and sun-soaked, leathery texture to the face. It's how you might tell them apart when ...

In the spring there are dogwood trees that blossom. Blossom and wilt thereafter. Their alabaster petals plume outward and spread round and tremble under the wind. April's snowfall. The rains that fall water the roots and they bloom first when it warms. Rain that pounds and hammers; that shears the white foliage away and turns them green. Limbs assimilated to rest of the emerald spectrum that in time fades as well. So swift they come and they go. It's said such brevity calls us to greater appreciation of the here and now. The gift of the day. The hour in which we live, while we live. But it is easy to forget. The seduction of the next moment and the next after, leaving you myopic in their trailing dust. They are a matter of expectation and worry. And behind them are things that pass away irretrievable. To appreciate the here and now. "Seize the day." That is the challenge, the goal. But there is another side to that coin. When you take the hard look at the temporal, ...

On a high place, overlooking. Approximately three hours until sunrise. Three and a half. The winds can be strong enough to knock you down at this height. They whistle between thin mountains, between us. Warm summer tidings lapping at the end of her hooded cloak. She's trying to keep it steady. She's not used to it yet. We've only sat here for twenty-six minutes and already she is complaining. "This is the job. I told you." "But don't you think we're wastin time?" "No. You know the plan. You know why we're here." "I know what you said..." I turn and look at her. She begins to wilt. "... I--I just think we could be doing other things..." I look away and back to the target area below. "I mean, there has to be people who need our help out there. Aren't we ignoring them?" "We are helping. Keep your scope on the entrance." A man exits the door we've been watching. Two others ...

They walked in and greeted him as they usually did. A nod, a subtle hand gesture. They took their table in the corner and waited for the informant to come in to discuss business. Sometimes it could take up to an hour. So they ordered drinks, maybe a little something to eat, and perused the surroundings. That's how they first learned his name. Ben. Sometimes referred to Old Ben, though never to his face. Benjamin, Benny. A mainstay of this port town for years, they said. Long since retired, he would spend most of his days in that cantina by the front window at a table for two, alone save for a german shepherd who always slept at his feet. It was the only dog they ever allowed in. He would sit there and slowly sip on a tall mug of beer and play chess. But to say he played would be generous. It was more like the silent, still meditation of a monk in some monastery high on a mountaintop. Unmoving, unchanging concentration. After an opponent made his move, it wasn't uncommon for...

I always made sure to open it up the same way, in the same order. The two zippers always meeting at the middle, pulled away from each other simultaneously with both hands. Left and right. A dark green case lined in black, its end broken to where the fabric flapped upward and showed the cheap wood underneath. It opened in two pieces. The top half had strapped on its interior the bow, which was removed by turning a little plastic nob that held it there. Unsheathed, it was placed on the stand until a hunk of calcified tree sap was taken out and rubbed on it. Rosin. Sometimes it was an amber color or a deep sort of violet. It had to be marred with a key or a scissor blade before it could be used. The white powder it left like a lubricant on the length of horse hair. When you played it emitted almost imperceptible clouds of the residue and after a while the strings would get caked up with the substance and need to be cleaned. The black finger board dusted with chalk. The cloth used was a sp...