Stood on Deception Pass yesterday, as I've been wanting to all summer. Wow, we should just not let people stand on that bridge for too long. It's easy to forget, when you're there, how high up you are and really to forget it all in staring at the emerald water that's glittering and pulsing along like a life stream in Final Fantasy. It's depthless.
It's also 200 feet high, and vibrates when the big semis go over it. Most people walk in one straight line, take in the whole bridge, but I know what the rest of it looks like, so I stop in the middle and stare over the edge. For fifteen minutes.
And it just ripples and erupts, because there are rocks beneath the water that affect the sea flow. The five or six little fishing boats, rowboats really, get jostled by it and I watched one kill a seagull accidentally. It ate the fishing line and, despite the guy's efforts, it died. Generally, when seagulls stop flapping wildly in the water, it's a Bad Sign.
There was a live harbor seal though, paddling under the bridge. Everything stands out against that deep green water, so the sleek mottled grey body stood out really well. It was lovely.
But, staring at all that loveliness, you forget that your car is in the parking lot, and you've other things to do, and you want to fall into the loveliness.

Summer of the deer

This has been the summer of the deer. They wander and mow our lawn and nibble down the dandelions like little fly-flicking vacuums. Their dark tails are nothing more than extended ears, flapping at flies as their fur fluffs and bristles.
They wander, no bigger than floppy-eared dogs with cropped tails, and bear no resemblence to the obsidian-eyed stalkers of the roads, who look at you tremulously when you bear down on them long after the stars have shut their eyes.
The trees are beginning to auburn and brown, those early leaves that sense premature death. They rustle, wind moving through them like a nurse, and I can imagine when they will fall, piles of autumn confetti.
Alaska is probably pretty this time of year.

The Last Unicorn

Though you may or may not have read Peter S. Beagle's book "The Last Unicorn," I finished it for the second time yesterday evening. I had forgotten... so much of the loveliness that is his writing, and the style, however brief and summarical, that just sweeps you away. Beagle has a hand and the words to communicate universality and truth, and it makes that book in particular heartbreaking and lovely to read.

After finishing, I went online to find further advice. Turns out, there is a newsletter called "The Raven," sent out sporadically with Peter S. Beagle's writing and information on his appearances. The link is http://www.peterbeagle.com, an unofficial site until they get the main one up and running again. I cannot attest to the worth of the Raven as a newsletter yet, but the website boasts of interview transcripts, a biography, appearances, and the opportunity to find more of Beagle's works.

In this age of vampires (authentic or no, I will not argue definitions), werewolves, and zombies (not that there's anything wrong with zombies), it's pleasant to remember that there is a mythological creature that simply exists to make beautiful and all around it spring. It doesn't sparkle in the sunlight, doesn't seek to lure anyone into lakes to consume them, and possesses this inexplicable disdain for the human race that makes it somehow appealing.

And there's the worst wizard in the world. That's important. And desert-y women and autumn cats and a prince hero who may or may not be a bit of a Shakespearean reference.