I am playing ball with the dog as we ramble down the beach to the South Jetty.
The clammers have returned and they are clamming away in a thin fog. The more toxic the clams, the less people here. The more toxic the world, the more people should be here.
Great piles of kelp have washed ashore.
I’ve already found three choice cuts of beaverwood and I staked them up for our return. The Beaverwood just keeps coming my way. I find it where it used to never appear. Why is that?
I reunited with my good friend Glen and met his fantastic new friend. We walked and talked down the beach as we played ball with the dog. Glen found a remarkable piece of beaverwood that looked like a sailboat. He said he’s going to make it into a sailboat.
A bit of rain begins to fall.
The dog is running with his usual insane pace.
I can see the fort high up in the dunes. I liken this special fort as an outpost warning against a possible invading army of toxic thoughts.
I am writing a story in my mind as I walk and hurl the ball to the dog. It is a good way to write.
Trucks past us.
I look for the bald eagle that usually appears on this beach. Nothing. No birds at all.
I have so much to do in the coming months. I am hoping I will become more viable as a person and writer if I can accomplish a few things.
The Bonnie and Clyde book is printed. I pick it up in a few days. I would have loved to have read parts of it to Bonnie and Clyde at the river, but that’s not going to happen.