10 May 2007. Beautiful Berkeley gray, that kind of morning. Fog last night, pouring in over the Marin hills, then across the bay. Last night: a dream story of seagulls and frigate birds, small boat on the open sea, somewhere off the Nushagak. The far north--an expanse, vast distances, weather to match. The plains of Moav, dry and windy, heat seeps into every crevice, you shade your eyes, look to the east, towards where it all began...
A spoon player, with the pair from Reed. From the dining commons, maybe 1966. Round, finely made. What was the name? Michaelson--that's it--the young political science professor, who'd lived in Dublin, learned how to play them at the source. It's all in the roll--fingers fanned, just the right amount of bow... A dance, time and time only...
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