My turn now. Surrendered to it in leather sandals, squishing hurry to the bus stop. Dinner Plate White tubers in a brown bag that weakened with every drop. Too late. Dripping down my forehead, soaked-thru fleece. Walking to the next bus stop now not cold anymore.

Morning after.

I took a ferry to the other side to visit my cousins. Sun-warmed mood, shiny smiles.

Kaaren taught me how to center clay on the wheel, throw a bowl. I seem to be shy in all involvements initially, and it is no different with a pile of clay. Can't go with the flow because the flow doesn't want to be what it isn't, which isn't what I want. Can only create by coercion. Not just by the hands, but the body opened and firm. So sexy. No wonder. I want to make more vessels, empty -- to fill what I have leavened by my own hands.

Bob talked about climbing: The Brothers at the end of May?

The three of us shuffled photos with narratives until the night deepened into too late to catch a ferry home. Settled into the couch under a down sleeping bag. In the still midnight sounds slept and I breathed in deeply the aroma of July and August. It was the smell of freedom.