Log of the Wicca

1/25/'10
2020 hours
47 37.35 N
122 30.25 W
Wind westerly at 5 knots
I set the easel on Wicca's foredeck on the warm, sunny January day. After laying down broad swaths of wet on wet color, it's a chore to corral these hues as the paint ebbs and flows across the canvas. Most people think painting is only a mere pleasant pastime but wrestling this messy, recalcitrant material into shape seems more like work. Purposeful work, as Dave calls it, though I doubt he would use that phrase to describe my humble efforts. We all contribute to the cause in our own way and Dave's approach is as artistic as Henry Moore's in his sensitivity to natural form and organic beauty.

2100 hrs.
Beneath the shimmering Seattle lights reflecting on Elliot Bay some eight miles East lurk huge octopus and sharks in depths over 100 fathoms.
I've seen the city ramparts rising above the haze of a Summer dawn and fancied it some fabled Shangrila, locus of all that's desirable to gods and men. Less and less I succumb to it's allure as ferry fares and traffic discourage voyaging beyond shipping lanes to seek misfortune. I have my own inner city of misconceptions where I am lost nightly amid dark alleys and shady types who leer suggestively at my cluelessness: "Hey sailor! Want a good time?" Er... no thanks.
A sparkling, old Taoist sage wearing only a funny hat once told me: " There is no desire". I didn't know what to make of his laconic pronouncement as I am so ensnared in that particular aspect of samsaric existence myself.