Driving southbound on Airport Way South, and looking for a few minutes privacy I noticed a gravel parking lot, and tucked away in the southeast corner, a grove of leafy trees pressed against roaring Interstate 5's backside. Mid-morning, and after a light rain, this verdant refuge jeweled by sparkling raindrops bedecking limbs, flowering weeds and a spider web occupied by a stunningly colored arachnid, a honey-golden spider descending a silky tread, tiny droplets further animating its yellowish beauty in the soft early light. Wonderful, I thought, nature speaking to our unnatural world: I am here, I am alive, I survive despite all human intervention, telling me once again there is more than momentary concern for the next fare, more than just making money, more than participating in nothing whatsoever, a inch-square spider telling me everything important I might need to know.
Entering Tai Tung on my first evening back, a departing customer said "Aren't you the guy who wrote the book about the waiter? Good job!"
Yesterday morning I found an email from someone I had spoken to nearly 20 years ago, sending me a poem entitled "To Joe Blondo" included in a recent journal. Thanks, Paul, for the memory.
Nice to be remembered and noted. Now for a major publishing deal and finally getting out of the
cab. I am ready!
Last week in the Seattle Times there was a featured photograph of a golden-colored spider, described as an orb weaver, and looking much like my featured arachnid. Glad to see it, yet sad as the aforementioned parking lot east of Airport Way is now partitioned off, probably meaning that the spider's leafy home is now doomed, slated for removal. As we all know, nothing remains the same despite all wishes to the contrary.
replica moncler jackets, combining elegant style and cutting-edge technology, a variety of styles of replica moncler gilet, the pointer walks between your exclusive taste style.ReplyDelete