Wednesday, July 1, 2015

to Lane Morgan, from Harstene Island, 1 August 1971(?)

Dear Mountain Woman -– 

You are missed. You are, indeed, almost the only one missing. Rags arrived a few days ago with Amy, who is tall, bespectacled, lean as Dana, and every whit as charming as ever. She swims vast distances daily at a Slo-Mo-V pace, and can barely wait for the time when some oldsters muster the energy to row or paddle across the Inlet, monitoring her swim. Maybe mañana. 

The Wheelises (Wheelii?) got in yesterday afternoon, delighted that Monte recognized the island on crossing the bridge. Joan had shopped for them in advance, three carts full and they moved into well-stocked comfort. It was Phyllis’s turn for dinner. Rain—the first since we started south—but only in showers and we were able to stay on the porch. A great evening; we grumbled about the rumble of artillery practice at the Fort, admired the orange of the flares, hoped the brass saw an omen when the sky talked back with a brief burst of electronics, discussed the relative merits of Almaden and Rags’s latest favorite among $2.70 a gallon reds, admired Phyllis’s pilaf, and made it to bed by eleven on a soft, warm open-sleeping bag night, the birds calling out on the dark water.

Rosa is rebuilding the privy from the bottom up (its bottom). When she took up the floor there was nothing underneath. Apparently faith has kept us aloft these past few months. She is getting much advice but only occasional help as she redesigns the premier derriere depository of Point Wilson. But last time I was up she was humming. 

The N.W. Writers conference was held at PLU this weekend and I was on the panel dealing with Western Americana. (I felt a bit like the man who learned what prose was and felt surprise that he had been writing it all his life.) One of the other panelists was Donald Bower, the editor of American West, which is published out of Palo Alto. He got wildly enthusiastic about Bold Northwestermen and left with the first section (1/3 of book) including the pictures. …

The Joffrey comes to Seattle Tuesday. The word is out that I’m no longer on the air: no passes. So we won’t see as many performances as in the past. But we will probably go on opening night to see “Trinity,” Arpino’s rock response to “Astarte,” which even the English liked, tho in general the London critics were not enchanted. They felt the big works gimmicky, “Green Table” outdated (!)  and in the minor pieces noted the rather slapdash techniques of most of the company. But then, Clive Barnes this week gave the back of his hand to the Royal Ballet, hoping they’ll tend to their knitting and approach the class of the NY City Ballet by next year. Criticism, thy name is bitchery.

There is a seal swimming by just inside the Goldschmid boat, a squirrel is gnashing his teeth in the haze. They madrone rattles in a light wind. The swallows are doing acrobatics. The crows are discussing sandfleas. Rosa is hammering. Your other world is in proper order. 


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