there's a new york painting by john sloan called the wake of the ferry the first one he made two it reminds me of woolwich in which grey place my sister was born i think i may have been taken there for occupation when my mother was pregnant a free ferry might be good for the boy give him something to inspect the churning of opaque opal-esque waters
do hold his hand though make sure he doesn't fall in you know how he goes head heavy
sloan's waters are sea shades but you can't tell there's little black or white all ghostly
it was a brilliant day sun sparkling on the waters doing those dance moves the sun does sometimes very disco very high seventies low eighties
seattle rose like manhatten turned around bumping infused with blues glorious various colors within blue with other early morning hues doing some kind of chorus thing as at an armory show in harmony but as far from barbershop as spiky can get
oh boy seattle usually so grey this morning this morning approached from the west by people who mostly haven't a clue about virgin births for the first time in twenty years knocked me for six a lovely boundary
grey lining though to all this silver lurking in the heat mussels gorged on toxic plankton cling to creosote pier piles they're now replacing with steel the jagged wet edge of a red tide which suckers immigrants and the unwary and destroys brain cells or kills
David Ritchie, Portland, Oregon
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