By Timothy Donnelly
To be the fish on the ladder
and not know what it means. To feel the bronzes,
the pearls, the greens, but in a context
of pure combat. To fight the literal stream
we hurl ourselves into for no
discernible purpose, other than some molecule
says it will be worth it. To feel
worthless enough to listen. To feel
something rather than nothing, the rungs of it
a punishment, a goading
into againstness, against the current. To come to know
the concrete intimately. To come to know
what we want is. To come to know what we want is
to be the fish on the ladder
nonetheless. To feel the sun
like a god we can discern. We hurl
our self into it, being for this purpose. To come to see
what there is left to feel. To come to feel
some other. To come to know
what we want is. To be the fish on the ladder.
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Paul got up very early to be at Michael's Toyota when it opened so we could find out what was wrong with the van, which turned out to be a vapor leak because the gas cap seal needed to be fixed, so that was fortunately pretty small, easy to fix, and not horribly expensive. When he got back, we watched the US Olympic women's gymnastics team win the gold while I folded laundry, then we did assorted work while checking in on swimming and other sports (I rooted for the Israeli swim team but they finished last in their heat).
We went for an early walk to the beach in gorgeous overcast weather before my Voyager group, which actually managed to watch an episode this week, the not-great but not-terrible "Critical Care" with its anti-socialized-medicine themes. Then we watched the end of the Orioles game over dinner before catching up on Orphan Black: Echoes, which made very little sense, and the first episode of Time Bandits, which was fun. No auroras, but we saw a beaver late tonight! Here are seals, salmon, seagulls, boats, and more at Ballard Locks:
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