The Year in Sand: 2004

2007-12-31T06:48:00.000-08:00

January 1: 04M-1 "Cross Currents" (two-unit formed)

January 16: LS282 (complete construction failure at about 85%)

January 23: 04F-1 "Effervescence"

February 20 attempt rained out before start

March 5: 04F-2

March 12: 04F-3 "Over the Top"

March 19: 04F-4 "Inside-Out"

April 2: 04F-5

May 1: 04F-6 "A Celebration in Community"

July 23: 04F-7 "Looking for Community"

August 8: 04F-8 "I'm Still Here"
August 8: 04P-1 (demonstration arch for Carlos and family)

September 18: 04F-9 "No More Solo Sculptures"
September 18: 04P-2 (demonstration arch)

October 2: 04F-10 "No Robot"
October 13: 04F-11 "Love, Of Course"
October 23: 04F-12
October 23: 04P-3 (demonstration piece for Andy Raffalski)
October 31: 04F-13 "Frodo Lives!" (for Ryan Rees' proposal)

November 20: 04F-14

December 4: 04F-15 "Holding Spirit"
December 4: 04P-4 (demonstration for Debbie Novero)
December 18: 04F-16

Formed sculptures: 17 attempts, 16 completions
Free-piled sculptures: 5, all demonstrations
Hybrids: 0
Multiples: 1 (formed)
Relief: 0
Lifetime starts 281-298

This is taken from my 2004 tidebook, which is where I record sculptures. Putting them in sequence helps me remember, and keep things straight when doing the images. Details might be recorded elsewhere, but this gives me a framework to hang the details on. The advantage of doing it here is that the file is accessible from anywhere there's an Internec connection. Privately, of course... if I need the info, I can copy and paste to somewhere else.

January 1: 04M-1

2005-06-22T13:29:00.000-07:00

This was pretty much the last hurrah for the one-day multiple sculpture. For details, read the report which follows the images.

Cross Purposes

Jesus told his disciples a story. "A man called together his servants and gave them money to invest while he was gone. He gave five talents of gold to one servant, two talents to another and one talent to the last, dividing it in proportion to the servants' abilities, and then left on his trip. The servant who received five talents began immediately to invest the money and soon doubled it. The servant who received two talents also doubled the money. But the servant who received the one talent dug a hole in the ground and hid the master's money for safekeeping."

"After a long time their master returned and called the servants to give an account of how they had used his money. The master was full of praise for the two servants who had invested well. 'Well done, my good and faithful servants.'"

"The servant with the one talent said 'Sir, I know you are a hard man. I was afraid I would lose your money so I hid it in the earth, and here it is.'"

"But the master replied 'You wicked and lazy servant! Take the money from this servant and give it to the one with ten talents. To those who use well what they are given, even more will be given and they will have an abundance. But from those who are unfaithful even what little they have will be taken away.'"

"Talent," said Phil, "doesn't count for all that much."
I had been thinking about a career in graphic design because I enjoyed it, and seemed to be good at it.
"Talent makes maybe ten percent of it. The rest is work." Phil said this with some force. At the time I didn't understand. Now I do: the field of art is full of wannabees talking about talent but not wanting to work, as if talent could build a bridge across lack of skills.

Of course, that leads to the question, "What is talent?" I didn't find a good answer, one that satisfied me, until very recently. Eric Bryant provided it: "Where are you creative?"

Put in such simple terms even I can understand it. Where am I creative? There are many ways, I'm afraid, but they all have one characteristic in common. They have no commercial value, and the most purely creative of them all is the most useless.

Build number: 04M-1 (lifetime start #281); 2 units with earthworks
Title: "Cross Currents"
Date: January 1
Location: Venice Breakwater, on the flat
Start: 0730, construction time 8 hours
Unit A: 40 inches tall, 21 inches nominal diameter, immersion screened native sand (Latchform)
Unit B: 32 inches tall, 21 inches nominal diameter, immersion screened native sand (Latchform)
Plan: Unit A on built-up plinth. Unit B in depression at end of long curving trench
Helpers: none
Digital Images: 30, with Canon Powershot G2
Photo 35mm: none
Photo 6X7: none
Photo volunteer: Rich, w/Canon Z115
Video motion: none
Video still: none
Video volunteer: Larry Dudock, w/Elura
New Equipment: none
Visitors: Rich, Lorna, Anna, Russ, Jane, Chris Lee, David

1. Delayed Argument

On June 19, 1994, I resumed sand sculpture after a 7-year hiatus. The sculpture was my 43d start. I'd stopped for reasons partly environmental; working at a sewage treatment plant will give you a different view of ocean water. Mostly, however, I was putting my energy into psychoanalysis. Later in the year I quit the analysis but kept on with sand sculpture. It offered more healing, or, at least, cheaper distraction. I quit for the year in mid-October after an unbroken string of 12 unbroken sculptures, which was a new record. The failure rate until then had been something like 15%.

The 1995 season started May 12. The sculpture fell over but it's a fragile medium. 1994 was a fluke. As the year progressed I finally understood that there was no good reason to quit in the winter. By Kansas standards there is no winter here. I did 1995's last sculpture on December 30, and opened 1996 with the first of what would become an annual event on January 1. From then on sand sculpture assumed a growing portion of the foundational task of keeping my life worth living. I never stopped for longer than a month or two.

Until I ran into a church called Mosaic. Very suddenly I was face to face with God, who offered solutions perhaps more solid than arches made out of sand.

* * *

People ask me what is the appeal of an art form that, after a great deal of work, yields something that not only can't be moved but washes away. My answer is multi-faceted and depends on who's asking. People who seem interested get the whole load. Passersby get one-sentence summaries polished by much repetition.

The long version starts with purity. Sand sculpture will never be owned. To hold onto it is to crush it. The maker's touch has to be just right: enough force to change, gentle enough not to break the fragile connections.

Each piece is forever unique. I work to satisfy only my own requirements. Each sculpture is a reach into someplace beyond mundanity, an attempt to touch and bring back some beauty. Sand, hand and mind work with each other in a sort of quest.

In support of this I make my tools, design and build the necessary equipment, experiment with and develop technology. Discover a problem and design a solution. Build it, find that it doesn't work, try again.

It's a self-generated activity, self-supported, to scratch a very deep itch inside me. From the very beginning, however, that first arch in 1982, what starts with a note inside myself resonates with others.

* * *

Christmas day comes in with rain, cold and wind. Is this God, being unsubtle in the idea that this is a day reserved for Him rather than a lonely sand sculptor? Or did he bring the rain for someone else?

I've gone five months with only a few small free-piled sculptures. Not one of the all-consuming, full effort all day formed sculptures, do your best, thrown everything you have into it and hope for beauty. I'm still paying on Phil's comment. How hard do I have to work?

The problem is that all-consuming part. After the sculpture I'm in a state that friends most gently describe as "Post-sculptural Syndrome," and they know better than to ask of me any task more complex than feeding myself. Mosaic has come to depend on my on-the-fly troubleshooting skills, and this requires that I have a brain instead of guacamole between my ears. This, in turn, precludes major sand sculptures. The first day free of this requirement was Christmas, which was rained out.

Keep me off the beach for a time and I start to get, well, hungry. Especially when it's some artificial entity getting in the way. Well, God isn't really an artificial entity, but is He really the one getting in the way?

I'm afraid to ask him directly. The child's key to doing things: never ask outright. Assume that what's not directly forbidden is permitted, and go do it before you're caught. It's kind of hard to sneak in a sand sculpture, not with a whole lot of clutter on the beach and a lot of pointing fingers, out there under God's own clear sky.

New Year's Eve. There's no end of the argument in sight. Currently it's revolving around serving two masters. Sand sculpture is by necessity a completely absorbing activity, requiring consideration of engineering along with design both local and relational. No matter how beautiful the idea it can't be seen if it falls over. This pretty well excludes the Christian's ideal of constant awareness of God's presence. Could this be construed as trying to serve two masters? From somewhere comes the idea to invite Jesus, as I've invited others, to this event but this is too radical.

The year's first day comes up, cold and dry, with high thin clouds through which some sunlight manages to make its way. I'm still arguing and avoiding argument. The real victim in this fight is design's child. I ride to the beach for the ninth annual New Year Day sculpture, full of conflict, not an image in sight.

2. Quit Thinking and Work

If I weren't mostly convinced of God's disapproval of the whole process I'd consider the setting a gift. Waves smoothed the isthmus of sand behind the Breakwater into a perfect stage. The tide has just revealed this space, and the sand is still wet.

It's the oldest trick in the survival manual. When in doubt, act. If God is really displeased with this, He has many ways to get through to me. I pick up my shovel, choose a spot and start digging. The cold wet sand burns my feet until they no longer feel anything. Another old technique for a sensitive person living in a world of glass shards.

Sand on the beach is sorted vertically, with coarser sand always accessible above the highest tides. Finer sand, better for sculpting, is about four feet vertically below that. Today's morning high tide prevents access to the good sand. One way to handle this is to come down the afternoon before and haul the fine sand to the next day's building site above the high tide, but improved packing techniques have enabled me to produce good sculptures with the coarser high-tide sand. After building a base I set the form on top and just go right on, enlarging the borrow pit around the sculpture so that it will become part of the design.

Packing sand is mindless work. I usually think about the sculpture's design but today nothing is happening, no images, no plans. Rarely have I been so bereft of sculptural ideas.

* * *

In the old days I lived for sand sculpture. Work was a way to keep food on the table and in quiet times there I'd make sculptures in my mind. There were always more ideas than days on the beach.

One day a man walked up, looked at the unfinished sculpture, and asked "What is it?"
"Whatever you'd like it to be."
"You've been blessed by God to make this."
"Well, it does feel like a gift, and I'm glad. Creativity is the only reason I can think of to continue living, and sand sculpture is a great way to be creative."
"Sand sculpture is your reason for living?" I can hear the skepticism.
"Creativity in general. Sand sculpture is one part."
He wanders off. "I'm guilty," I said to my friend Rich. "Baiting evangelicals is just too easy."
I met another evangelical on the beach a year later. He was a different kind of man, much more humble, and I was running out of momentum. That conversation was much different.

* * *

Cut and fill. Sand comes out of the borrow pit and goes into the form. I shape the pit and decide to make two sculptures in a setting of earthworks. Coarse sand encourages simpler sculptures, so I tend to do two or three with the hope that simple sculptures in a simple setting combine to something strong and unique. Sometimes it works. The main thing I've learned in making multiple sculptures is that there are many new ways in which to fail.

I peel the first pile and then set up the form again on the levelled bottom of one end of the borrow pit, hoping that the pit's curving wall will link the two. There's a large peninsula between the two. I have a vague idea that this will somehow help the design, but no real plan. In sand sculpture the mass of materials pretty well means that whatever you decide, you're stuck with.

Forty minutes or so later the second pile is finished. Being founded in a hole it will take longer for the excess water to drain out, but this isn't a problem. I have Unit A to carve, up there on its riser base about eight feet away. There are no more excuses, no more reasons to put off this confrontation.

3. Serving Multiple Masters

All of the hours spent thinking, planning, making, end at this point. I pick up a tool and make the first cut; sand falls irretrievably away.

Coarse sand piles aren't as strong as ones made from fine sand. This limits the amount of overhang I can get away with, and means that the sculpture's parts have to be thicker. Within those limits, however, is a lot of space to explore. Over the years engineering, rather than being the whole story, has retreated to supporting design.

At first my vision for this sculpture is quite simple: a tall slab, gently curved, with some braided openings in it. This will allow me to carve some kind of similar design in the other piece to make a connection between them.

* * *

What is the nature of hope? This is what Mosaic sells and I certainly need some. It's billed as a church for creative people. The problem I've run into is that my relentlessly non-commercial true creativity has no place for expression there. Sand isn't portable, stories can't be sung and I'm no actor.

What I'm left with is meta-creativity, those processes which I've learned in support of the others. Trouble-shooting, problem solving, general communication and writing skills, and all under the control of someone else's plans. What would it take to make me feel I'm really a part of this community?

Is art truly art when it's in service to anything? I think not, seeing the effects of commercialization in all but the very strongest of artists. Weak ones turn into Thomas Kincaid or Wyland, and keep doing the same things but bigger and fancier. Or George Lucas. I want story, he keeps giving me special effects. I refuse to be like the man who carves mermaids from sand on the boardwalk. "I do this because it's what people will pay for."

Is this what God expects? Tame sand sculpture? How can you tame something that dies as soon as it's touched by the lasso? Am I expected to give this up entirely? Could this be the sacrifice that Erwin talks about?

Yes, sand sculpture has been a survival mechanism, but it is more than that. It's an exploration, an experiment, an attempt to touch beauty driven by feelings I'm only hazily aware of. The touch of my hand on the sand still gives me a thrill as the sand responds so subtly.

* * *

Sand, however, whispers its own suggestions. What about this? Or this? Or a small mark left by my hand in doing something else might suggest a new element, and soon I'm led far afield from where I intended to be. Delightful distraction. Four hours later the situation is absolutely hopeless: a sculpture that, on its own, would be fine, but it's saddled with an overwrought base and the other pile, still wrapped in its jacket. How will I ever carve it into something that will complement Unit A in the two hour remnant daylight?

There's nothing to do but try. I take the form away, wash it and put it away on the trailer. Then I go after the block of sand with great strokes. There is no plan. Just carve.

"If you keep going like that, you're going to end up with a molar that has cavities."
"There is some tooth in what you say, Rich."
"That was an incisive comment," Rich's son Eric contributes.
"Oh, don't get carried away with this."

* * *

New Year Day is usually busy. Today it started at about 0800 with a man looking for the Penguin Swim, the annual event that starts at noon and draws people to take their first ocean swim of the year, no matter what. One year it ran in the rain. Another year the surf was ferocious, real sand-filled grinders out there to chew up the unprepared. The swimmers have come and gone on an easy day, but the psychothermic index was far too low for me to be interested. At least I can feel my feet. Puns aren't a problem, especially when I'm tired enough that the internal censor is napping.

I turn around and pick up the spray wand from the bucket where it's parked. Water is nearly overflowing from what used to be about three-quarters full.
"So that's where all my water is going. I try to spray but the thing's empty. The valve isn't cutting it off."
"It's a good Christian tool," Rich says instantly. "You're supposed to spray without ceasing."
I'm stopped in my tracks, laughing. "That's perfect, Rich. You get the pun prize for today."
"Good. You're already gotten the Johnson Abstract Prize."
"That's great. You're fooled, are you?"
"Yes. I can't see anything in the sculpture."

This is an immediate challenge for everyone else. Naomi Anna thinks it's an elephant, or an angel. Unless it's a sphinx. I just keep working. Otherwise I'd be asphinxiated with ideas.
"I can see a dancer in there. See? There are the legs? and the arm, coming down there."
"Oh, yes, I see it now."
"I think you're both much more imaginative than I am," and I pick up another tool and go back to carving.

* * *

"I really like what you're doing. It's free."
"Thank you." I turn and face a man who's crouched on the sand beside me.
"I'd like to have time to do something like this."
"It does take a commitment of time, but I schedule it. Sand sculpture is a priority." Well, it used to be. "I need the freedom. I thought about being a graphic designer once, but realized I'd have a hard time with clients' bad taste."
"Yes. I used to do that. For work. Now I write and draw, mainly for fun."
"Oh? what do you write?"
"It used to be technical articles." And then he blushes. "Now, well, now I write and edit articles for a magazine for the "Lord of the Rings" movies.
"Wow."
"Oh, it's nothing that great."
"You know, I've never seen the movies, and have no intention to do so. I have too much respect for the book, which is one of my favorites."
"You're right. Good for you. The movies are a travesty."
"My sister has seen them and said that some key elements were left out, such as Galadriel's gifts."
"That, and the scouring of the Shire, and that meeting with the Mouth of Sauron. I really couldn't believe Jackson left that out."
"I read the book every couple of years, when I need a reminder of what people can do when they let their creativity go." As much as I enjoy talking with some of the passersby, they're still somewhat of a problem. Cold winter days are better. But today is a more social occasion, and there have been interesting people here. They've given me a lift, which I needed, and I was already distracted.

4. The Feeling of Failure

As I clean up Unit B I can tell this thing just isn't coming together. All the confusion has resulted in rehashing ideas that didn't work a year ago and don't work now. All I can say for this one is that its default designs are more attractive than the defaults used to be. It's very far from what I wanted.

And yet, it does have some nice individual features. Unit A has nice surprises inside, and is the hardest to clean up that I've ever made.

The earthworks are the major problem. Contributing to nothing but an aching back. I knew this, but forgot. Keep the base simple when the sculptures stand up like this. Otherwise it's just a distraction. The problem here is that the earthworks always come at the end of the day and get only the dregs of my energy.

There is simply too much useless mass lying around for the two sculptures to pull everything into a whole sculpture. Free-piled experiments had shown that the closer together are the units of a multiple the better they communicate.

Failure is dismal, even when the sculptures are standing. I so much want that numinous vision to come out. It has happened. Not today, however.

5. Reality versus Fantasy

I put the final finishing touches on and then stand for a few minutes talking with Chris. He'd walked up a few minutes earlier and I'd introduced him to the other friends who have come out for the day.

We watch the light change on the sculpture and catch up on news. It really isn't a bad sculpture. Confused, yes, a sort of free-pile sensibility carried into this more vertical format where it doesn't work so well. What's amazing is that it works mechanically.

A few years ago I was feeling that I was underutilizing the ability of the sand blocks I made. They were very strong but I wasn't hollowing them out very much. I pressed forward and got into lighter work but still was short of what could be done. This sculpture proves it. Lighter than many of its ancestors made from better sand, it might herald the end of translocated sand, which would cut the workload greatly.

Unit B is a sort of understudy with no future. Short, down in a hole, surrounded by massive earthworks. As part of a more appropriately designed multiple it would have worked well.

That's the risk of the multiple. Make two good sculptures but they don't belong with each other and the overall vision fails, reinforced by an inappropriate base.

The further reality is that the day is beautiful. Morning cold has given way to afternoon warmth under a golden sun, with a little breeze flitting around. A few surfers are getting good rides, and one person has even persuaded a kite to take flight. I don't know how that was managed, but Rich points out the flag on the lifeguard tower that flutters encouragingly. Down where we are the air is still. Anna takes advantage of this to play her flute as Lorna sings along.

Various passersby stop to ask the usual questions. One family seems very interested, so I give them a quick free-piling demonstration and then show how to carve with a clamshell. No tools. Run what you brung. Tools just enable faster work with more detail, both of which can lead one down paths far from beauty.

6. Colors of the Sky

We have about 45 minutes of daylight left. Clouds near the horizon make that estimate even more questionable. I turn to Chris.

"I'd better start taking photographs." Wonderful yellow light floods the sculpture.
"You haven't done that already," Rich asks.
"Nope. Others have been doing so." He wanders off to talk with Lorna. I fetch my camera. If I could move I might do more creative angles, but as it is kneeling for low shots is a problem. It's real work to get back onto my feet, so sometimes I just shuffle around on already abraded knees.
"Are you sunburned?" Naomi Anna asks.
"No. Just crawling around in the sand."

A cloud blocks the sun and our light turns to cement. A few minutes later it's back, and then the sun's touching the horizon under the band of low dark offshore clouds. Above those is a sheet of silver that turns gold after the sun goes around Earth's curve. The gold deepens, darkens, turns reddish and gains purple fringes. And then something far to the west quenches the light, except up very high where some mare's tails still burn in the elevated day.

I do a last tool check, pick up the trailer's tow strap, and start walking. Chris and Eric push and we get over the dry sand quickly.

"That's the hardest part of the day. Thanks for your help."
"You're going home first, and then to the restaurant?"
"Yes."
"OK. We'll see you there."
"Chris, are you here on a bike?"
"No. I ran."
We head north along the sand-covered bike path. My tired legs push me along at a good pace for Chris to jog, and we talk as we go. I leave him at his apartment and struggle up the hill to home.

7. Meeting of Two Worlds

"Go left, then they're on the right," Chris says.
The instructions are too complex for me to figure out. I wander around, come back out again, go inside again and wander around some more. They shouldn't leave me alone in this state. And then I hear a recognizable voice and follow it to a big round table. Someone everyone has made it here faster than I did. Except for Larry, who had to haul his own equipment off the beach.

There are eight of us. Lorna and Rich I've known since 1995 when I did a slide show for the Sierra Club Camera Committee. Jane and Russ I met earlier than that, in 1992 or so, on various motorcycle rides. Naomi Anna has been coming out to the New Year Day sculptures for a few years. Larry I met in 1997 through Email prompted by sand sculpture questions; he moved out here last year so he could sculpt year round. And then Chris, met this year through Mosaic, the sole representative of that new world.

I have a foot in each world. I make an uneasy bridge, but today has been a success.
"How's the calamari?"
"I don't know because I don't like squid in general. Everything I've had here has been good, and everyone I've brought here has been pleased."

We pass around the menus, order, talk. I fade in and out, encouraged by a bottle of Negra Modelo.
"What is this, 'dos X X?'" Lorna asks, looking at the menu.
"Mexican beer. Light."
"Not bad, though."
"I prefer the Negra Modelo."
"Chris, what's your connection here?"
"Mosaic. I met Larry there a couple of months ago." Everyone here knows what Mosaic is because I've sent them the stories.

"You were right. The calamari is good." That's a relief. Of course, they were already hooked by the fresh tortillas. Conversations swirl around much faster than I can keep up with.

Each of our plates has a mystery vegetable. We sample and can't figure it out.
"Jicama."
"No. Turnip, maybe?"
"Could be. It has little flavor. Or rutabaga."
"You're kidding. Rutabagas have lots of flavor."
"So do turnips."
"You mean there's a difference? I thought a rutabaga was just sort of a big turnip."
"No, they're different."
A waiter comes by. I point and ask.
"Mexican squash."
"Oh, yes," Lorna says. "The kind that turns back in at the end."
"I've seen those."
Whatever it is, I like it. Of course, I'd like almost anything right now. Especially bed. We settle up and leave.
"Good night. Thanks for coming out."
"Happy new year!"
"Yes, indeed. A good start."

Chris and I walk across Lincoln and past the laundromat. If I stay with him I'm less likely to get lost. When he turns me loose I'm nearly home. I ride the rest of the way. All that's left is to wash the sand off. It feels like midnight but the clock says 1958. Tension will do that. Maybe sleep will bring some resolution. Probably not.

8. Afterward

At issue isn't so much one sand sculpture, but a process. The mistakes I made in this sculpture were similar to mistakes made a year ago. That's what interruption does: I forget, the hands forget. All the skills deteriorate. Design, carving, earthworks, integration. Being good at anything requires practice. The major gift of sand sculpture is that it doesn't feel like practice to me. It's always enjoyable, that simple act of carving a shape from packed sand.

Perhaps Phil (Mosaic, not Colorado State) had the right of it when he wrote, in response to my worries about doing a sculpture on Christmas day, "I think you could use it as an expression of worship for the Savior, not just on Christmas day, but year round. He is the creator of the universe and has given you the capacity to create. What a great expression of worship on Christmas. Expressions of faith through art is as old as art. Tolkein created the Lord of the Rings as an expression of his faith in Christ. A fantasy story as an expression of faith, and a good one at that. Sand sculpture seems pretty reasonable to me."

* * *

"Moses said to the Israelites, 'The Lord has chosen Bezalel, the son of Uri and grandson of Hur from the tribe of Judah. God has filled him with his power and given him skill, ability, and understanding for every kind of artistic work, for planning skillful designs and working them in gold, silver and bronze; for cutting jewels to be set; for carving wood; and for every other kind of artistic work.' Isn't that great?" Erwin asks. "The first man to be filled with God's Holy Spirit, and he's an ARTIST!" This was the last message for 2003, a potpourri of ideas and plans, with some history thrown into the usual lively mix.

I was encouraged by this until I realized the verses describe a man who's being tapped to help design and build the Temple in Jerusalem. His skills are very useful. More, I was thinking about the verse about serving two masters. Sand or God? Do I have a real choice, or is a choice even necessary? The verse actually reads "No one can serve two masters. For you will love one and hate the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money."

There's nothing about money on the beach. Time, yes, but even in the middle of designing and carving I felt only the estrangement of an unresolved argument, not a severing of my connection with God. I know the difference.

I open the 2004 Tidelog and look for dates with good tides. They start in February and improve from there through the spring. What I need is God's blessing on this, not Mosaic's.

The first clear concept to emerge from the collision of Christian and beach experience is that talent is to be used. God gives people talents for reasons, and with talent comes responsibility I don't really want. Too bad, Larry. "Use it or lose it," I know. "Use it or disappoint God" is new.

Or could it just be that God likes sand sculpture? I wonder if Phil is right about creativity and worship. Well, if I get enough courage I'll ask God about this.

A second concept, not so clear, comes to mind. I'm all set up to fight God for my right to do sand sculpture, but has He ever opposed this? He gave no sign of being upset with the free-piled post-Mosaic sculptures.

9. On the Separation of Church and God

"Good morning, Lord."
It's still dark outside. Leftover rain drips regularly, metallically, in a neighbor's downspout.

I've given God other aspects of my life that I thought were more dear than sand sculpture, but it's becoming very apparent that I underestimated the sculpture's importance, and that of the church. Mosaic reanimated a nearly dead dream that had been sublimated for years in sand. Immediately after that the church pointed to the source of the dream and I hit the road, drawn irresistibly.

God is writing new life into my mismanaged life. I can actually think of a time soon to come when I can look forward to getting up in the morning.

Now, I'm not sure what the nature of that life will be. All I know is that God takes better care of me than I ever have. He knows how I'm made. I have a very strong desire to make things, preferrably beautiful and complex things with no limits of purpose or concept. As God replants the wasteland I have no idea what will grow. Sand sculpture is the biggest of the remnant few green spots amid the slag. I invented it, developed it, practiced it in sessions that didn't feel like practice, let my spirit fly off of its restricted ballistic course into places that otherwise couldn't be seen. It would hurt to lose this.

* * *

"Is not God the god of creation. Mine is, whether it has any existence outside my head or not. Therefore love god and do as you will, as the saint said (I don't remember which: you arethe expert on saints now). When you do, then whatever you want is what god wants.
Go and fret no more.
All the best,
Rich"

* * *

"Why do you think God would disapprove of sand sculpture?
I see no conflict at all. To be outdoors with natural things and to work creatively is spirituality of the highest order.
I have always felt more "spiritual" or "religious" when outdoors with creatures, plants, forests, sea, snow, etc.
You are on a good journey and doing well, as I see it.
Lorna"

* * *

"How'd the sculpture go?"
"Confused." Mauricio and I are sitting on his kitchen floor with all of his children's building blocks between us.
"How so?"

I pick up a tapered block and put it against another in the tower I'm building as I try to figure out what to say. Make it simple. Tell him the whole story.
"I hadn't thought about the design, as I usually do."
"Well, yes, you've had other things to think about."
"Right. Besides that I was arguing with God." He looks very attentive at that. "I was afraid he'd say 'No' if I asked him if I could do a sculpture. So, I didn't ask, and hoped he'd ignore me. You're probably very familiar with this."
"Oh, yes."

"So, there I am on the beach, sculpting. No judgement, but still no plan, and pretty much stone cold. I haven't done a big sculpture in months." I place another block, but this one unbalances the tower. It falls over and wipes out Amelia's elephant's legs. "I'm sorry, Amelia." We both start building again.

"The sculpture never really came together. There were nice elements. The important things happened after I got home, having gotten away with it; two thoughts. One, no judgement. Two, skills that are currently used in sand sculpture could be useful elsewhere, and maybe in something that satisfies me even more than carving sand does. Hard to imagine, but possible."
"Interesting." He gets up and walks toward the bedroom. "Oh, by the way, we have something for you." He hands me a big cylindric container of Tinkertoys.
"Wow. Thank you. I have just the use for this. I'm going to a birthday party tonight, and the Tinkertoys will fit perfectly." We go on building until I have to leave.

The sun has set, beyond Mt. Pinos, but long feathers of wind clouds glow reddish gold above Liebre Mountain against a darkening sky. The snow I'd seen on the way up is gone.

* * *

"Hi, Chris. Happy birthday!"
"Thank you. You brought pizza? Great!"
"The last time I did this I had them deliver it. Took two hours. So I picked it up on the way down." Balancing two pizzas on the handlbars as I rode through Marina del Rey. Other guests are wandering around with plates of food. I snag some chicken and head for the living room, needing a chance to sit down.

Andy sits down on the couch. "How was your new year?"
"Pretty good. I did the ninth annual sculpture."
"You do a sculpture for the New Year?"
"Yes. To celebrate the fact that I no longer live in Kansas and can go barefoot in January."
"How did it turn out?"
"Confused. Very tense." I tell him the story. "And so, it seems that God accepts my need to make sculptures. I'm not sure why."
"I can see ways to use it as a witness."

His ideas are more detailed than mine. I simply think that anything beautiful speaks of God. Not that all of my sculptures are beautiful--I'm running around one in twenty, these days--but the attempts count for something. Later we start building things out of Tinkertoys, and it's quite a sight to see. Adults playing, having fun making simple things designed on the spot. It's amazing what people can make when they sidestep the judgement.

I ride home through the cold damp sea air. The Venice Boardwalk is quiet, for once. The bike's tires whisper on the sandy smooth concrete. Slow. It has been a long couple of days.

2004 January 2, 3, 9
Edited and reformatted for the Web 2005 June 22

Bible references:
Leader: Matthew 15:14-29 condensed, New Living Translation
Afterward: Exodus 35:30-33, Good News Translation, and Matthew 6:24, GNT

Email from Rich Johnson, 2004 January 3
Email from Lorna McClellan, 2004 January 3

January 16: LS-282

2005-06-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

Several years ago I made a monumental effort to gather all of my scattered records and find out how many sculptures I'd made. Why? People always ask.

In the old days I just went out and did sculpture. The questions came in, and I had to figure out something to call them, so I came up with the build number. I'd only give a sculpture a build number, as in 04F-1, if it was completed. Sculptures that went on the ground didn't count.

At least, at the beginning. Later, I got good enough at packing that there were no immediate failures. So, I'd work on a sculpture most of the day and then it would fall over. These attempts seemd to need some sort of recognition, but they couldn't have build numbers. So, I read the notes, counted the starts, and came up with the "Lifetime Start" number. This is a cumulative count of all "major" sculptures.

What constitutes a major sculpture is subject to change. Right now it only includes formed ones, but I have in the past counted big free-piles in the list. I wouldn't want any of this to be simple.

Anyway, here's one that fell over. I don't know why. There's no report for this piece, and I just don't remember. Note that I performed various experiments on the ruins, spraying it with a stream of water and dumping buckets on it to see how the sand flows. Also note that this is typical: when something falls off of one of my sculptures, it takes out everything below it.

January 24: 04F-1

2004-01-31T09:34:00.000-08:00

There's a report after the image assembly that will give you the story behind this piece.

Bubbling Over

"Good morning, Lord."
Right now that's more of a promise than anything else; the world is still dark outside my window. At least now I believe the promise. More or less.

I've been reading "The Purpose-Driven Life" with some co-workers. We meet on Thursdays at lunch and discuss a chapter. The current topic is what brings God pleasure, and the book brings up some interesting points. Don't tell any of your conservative friends, but it seems that God wants us to enjoy life. I'm surprised the book hasn't been banned.

"All right. It seems you don't mind me doing sand sculpture. What role would you like to have in this?" I'm a bit tetchy about having anyone mess with my designs. "But if that's what you want, well, do it." I may be slow, but I do learn. "You're invited to the party. Take what role you want." Why would he even care? "But you do care, as demonstrated in many way. Watch, guide, bring interesting people."

Christians are to be a lively part of society. The bible characterizes this as leavening in bread but this image is slow. Erwin chooses, very typically, a description technically and chemically as accurate, but that paints a more active image. Fizz. I doubt he was thinking of sand sculpture.

Build number: 04F-1 (lifetime start #283); monolith on short riser
Title: "Effervescence" (for Andy Raffalski)
Date: January 23
Location: Venice Breakwater, on the flat
Start: 0915, construction time 7 hours
Size: 40 inches tall, 21 inches diameter, immersion filtered native sand (Latchform)
Helpers: none
Digital Images: 59, with Canon Powershot G2 (includes Rich's process shots)
Photo 35mm: none
Photo 6X7: none
Photo volunteer: Rich, w/Canon Z115 and Powershot
Video motion: none
Video still: none
Video volunteer: none
New Equipment: none
Visitors: Milar (from Spain) and friend, Rich, David English (Burning Man)

1. Do It Yourself

I love watching Nate speak. His well-formed hands follow the tumble of words in quick movements. His face lights up and the hair hanging over his eyes can't hide their sparks. His whole upper body moves. Speech is kinetic.

He's sitting next to me. I'm post-sculptural but flying; it has been a good day. I started it by calling him in the morning.
"Debbie made some other plans, but we're not sure it will happen. If not, we'd love to join you. Hang time."

Andy is more definite. "I'll get off work about six. Be at your place around 6:30?"
"That'll work." I don't really know what will happen, but Mosaic is like everyplace else. If you want something to happen, start it.

"I'm great," Nate says, "if someone else starts it. I'll get in there," and a hand quickly slides forward, "and push. But if I'm sitting at home, it just won't occur to me to start something. This was a great idea."

Casablanca. Mosaic West. Only Andy and Nate are really alive; I'm drifting and Debbie is sick. Nate was going to come alone, but once Debbie heard that a new restaurant was involved she couldn't resist and made Nate pull her off the couch.

"I was wondering. I'm very leery of forcing my will on folks. I figure that if I don't hear from someone it means they don't want to hear from me." Encouraged by Nate's example I start waving my hands. "I already feel as if I've cut too wide a swath through this organization already." I almost knock over a water glass.

"Larry as a swath," Debbie says. The rest of the idea gets buried in noise from a birthday party.
"Not everyone is as strong as you, man."

Strong? Me? In middle name only. And yet, I got this party going. And I'm glad. The day started well and got better.

2. What Are You Doing?

The tide peaks at 6.5 feet, at 0945. It's the exact inverse of the Standard Day, which became standard due to my desire for the best pile possible. As I frequently do I simply stayed with that process. Can't do delicate sand sculpture with the coarse sand that lives up at the high tide line. An absolute problem.

Packing is packing. Techniques that work for fine sand also work for coarse, and when the multiple sculpture idea came along I didn't have time to haul in good sand for all the units. I'd use what was right there at the building site, and several sculptures into the series I finally woke up to the realization that I was carving these coarse sand piles as if they were fine. There is now no technical reason coarse sand sculpture can't be as good at the best of 1999, done with the persnickety state of the art practice that NASA inspired in me.

"What are you doing?" She has a bright smile, dark hair, animated face and curiosity written in every line.
I'd just started unloading my kit, setting up Sand Sculpture Base, my home for the rest of the day. "I'm doing a sand sculpture."
"Right here?"
"Over there." A vigorous wave rolls in and washes over the spot I've chosen.
"You need all of this stuff?"
"Yes. The big tube is my form. Buckets for water. My carving tools are in the tub behind you."
She turns around. "May I pick them up?"
"Yes." I continue setting up the table.
"These are beautiful. You make them?
"Thank you. Yes." As I'd walked past the lifeguard tower I'd seen three people standing on the deck. Now the two men come over, wondering why she's spending so much time with me. I tell them the same story as Milar looks at each of the tools.
"He makes these! Look at them! They're fantastic." She has enough enthusiasm for about five ordinary people.
"Where are you from?"
"Spain. With an American accent." There is only a hint of Spain in her speech. "I'm travelling for a year. Around the world."
"Wow. Very good. Do it now before you get sucked into commerce."
"I was going to work for a time but then saw that just that would happen. I'd never be able to travel." Yes. Play now. There will always be work to do. I'm continuing to set up my site. "We need to go get some food. How long will you be here?"
"All day. Come back around sunset. If the sculpture's still standing that's when it'll be finished."
"That long? Wow. We'll bring you some lunch."
"Great. Sand sculptors never turn down food."

They walk away toward the Boardwalk. I watch the beautiful waves curl over, shining in the late-morning sunlight, translucent blue-green.

3. Technology

Usually in coarse-sand sculpture I use the hardware cloth screen, but that stuff doesn't hold up very well and my nice new one already has holes in it. A shell caught between the frame and the wire easily breaks the latter, and then bigger items get through into the sculpture. Today I'm using the proven window-screen model. Washing the sand out of this finer screen takes longer but it's worth it. I'm going for maximum performance today.

The idea is to hollow the sculpture out and cut the sides into complex braids of space, light and sand. I like the braided look and have never used it for a whole sculpture except smaller pieces. I started thinking about this sculpture's design earlier in the week; one has to do something when stuck on a bus for 45 minutes, crawling home. The only thing worse is driving.

Third outing. Sand sculpture appeals to the purist in me. No one can possess the sculpture, no one can buy it and thereby gain some say in what I make. This is entirely up to me, stand or fall physically and artistically depending upon my skills and design sense, and when the sun sets it's over. I've always thought of it as a selfish act. I don't look beyond the sculpture itself and in the last few years this has become ever more true. I'm chasing some sort of design goal, feeling my way along. I don't know what it is, only how far I am from it.

I have no idea what will happen today. Packing can only take the sand so far. Structure here will depend heavily upon very careful engineering. One thing in my favor is that microsculpture, from which the braided design has descended, is inherently stable because it has no long unsupported parts.

In about an hour and a half the pile is ready. For most of that time waves have regularly washed around the sculpture but I planned for this, putting an ablative barrier of sand around the sculpture's sokkel. This did its job. I peel the form away and the cylinder stands on a broad, firm riser. The benefit of working through high tide is that you don't have to worry about how high it will come. Watching the tide approach a nearly completed sculpture is nervous-making; I'm famous for putting a sculpture at expected tide height plus 1 inch, drawing a line in the sand to mark where the tide will hit. Sometimes I get busted.

4. Design

Before removing the form I used the #4 Vertical Roadgrader tool to mark a line around the pile's top so that I could easily do a symmetric taper. Most of the time I guess. I cut to the line and then realize it still didn't work because the form always leans a little. So much for the easy way.

Taper is more important when working with coarse sand because I'm then assured of all the parts leaning against each other. No sand likes overhangs, but coarse sand is very intolerant as last week's sculpture proved. Yet I'm going to have to be daring at least a few times because microsculpture gives me no big holes for sand removal. Balancing the small and large elements is a big challenge for me, with highly variable results.

At least I'm designing. The last two sculptures were produced in a sort of design vacuum. I was thinking of other things. Like how much judgement I was going to get for spending time on the beach. Many people, in Mosaic and without, helped me get over that problem. Thank you, all. This one's for you., but especially for Andy because, for all his strait-laced demeanor, he has been strong in his support for this idea.

Big holes go in the front. Sculpture is really made of light, and big holes work just as well for collecting light as for exhausting sand. The pile feels soft by usual standards and is easily cut with the Bigger Loop tool. The south side will be the area I carve the braids into so I carve that wall thin, but thick enough to support the squared-off top. I also leave a rib from the east side to help hold up the roof. This will eventually turn into a series of arched supports from the bottom, but they start with small holes drilled through from the north.

Early sculptures were pure structure. Everything that didn't help hold something else up got removed. These sculptures had an honest simplicity that I still like looking at, but I can't keep making the same sculpture every time and needed ways to express more complexity. This came about with the introduction of smaller tools, and started with a long series of sculptures that were much too complicated and took 12 hours to make. All I can say about them is that I learned a lot. Now I try to express the complexity in detailed areas, but leave other areas much more simple. Now all sculptures incorporate "non-structural design elements," things put there just to look nice. Microsculpture is the highest development of this idea: lots of little holes and tightly curved lines fitting into a larger composition.

The real key is in attention to detail. Don't just make a part and leave it in a sort of random shape. Use subtle cuts to fit it in with everything else, or to suggest a relationship with some other part. Look at it three times and think about how to make it better. Walk around the sculpture and see where the parts lead.

I learned a lot from doing multiple sculptures. One was how to speed up the process so as to get two or three sculptures done. Today's single gets the benefit of fast work in roughing out the design, with time left over for detailed shaping.

The whole thing is a real delight. Alone among post-Mosaic serious sculptures, this one is beginning to cook. I can feel it. It'll be good. If it stays together. I give it another spraying to make sure. Coarse sand dries out more rapidly.

"You only need to make small holes today. I only brought little cookies."
"No problem, Rich. The whole south side is slated for little holes. I was at Trader Joe's yesterday and forgot all about cookies."
"They may be small, but I have lots."
"Speaking of which, I need some food."
"Cookies?"
"Not yet, something more substantial. Want some peanuts?"
"Sure."

When I go back to work, Rich fills me in on the details of his latest projects. He's learning Python, a new-generation programming language. The sun slowly tracks west and I estimate my progress in relation to the remaining uncarved sand. This looks good. No reason to panic. The idea is to make it come out about 45 minutes before sunset so the light's nice for photography.

Strong surf rolls in. It seems to be a longboard day. There's a shortage of pelicans, but a bird a bit smaller than a seagull, with narrower wings, fishes with quick changes of direction in the quieter water behind the breakwater, diving, turning, diving again and aborting when what it thought was a fish turns out ot be something else.

"We saw a big group of dolphins south of Santa Monica."
Rudy and his wife are back from their walk north.
"We've had our beer."
Rudy chimes in with "And now we're going for the next." They're almost home. I see them regularly here as they make their round trip.
"It's looking good."
"Thanks."
They head off. I wonder what the hurry is. The afternoon is warm, with just a little damp breeze.

5. The Effect of Improved Nutrition on Sand Sculptors

"I count 23 holes, and two fakes."
"Only one fake, Rich. That other one goes through. Look here." Everyone needs someone to keep them honest. "And that fake one won't be fake for much longer. Do you have safety shots?"
"Yes. Do you want me to take another round?"
"Go ahead." Digital cameras are great for documentation, so long as you have one person with clean hands around to do the job.
"This is fantastic! Wow!" Milar is back, with her quiet shadow.
"Thank you."
"We brought you lunch. Are you vegetarian?"
"I can be." This question usually precedes the announcement that lunch will include no meat. "I eat meat, but not a whole lot."
"Oh, good. We got you chicken." Her friend pulls a bag out of his pack and hands it to me. It's warm, which is nice now that the day is cooling off.

Force Primeval Bars are good, but only go so far. I tear into the chicken and rice. "This is great! And not just because I'm hungry."
"We got it from a tiny Indian place, over on Sepulveda. One of those family restaurants where the food is made with love."
"Tastes like it to me. Real food. What a concept."
"We thought about bringing snacks, but realized you're working hard and need something else."
"Thank you very much." I polish it off and go back to work with new vigor. "What a difference that makes. Of course, I don't know if it's the food, or your enthusiasm that makes the real difference."

"Are you finished?"
"Almost. I'm cleaning it up now, rubbing out the cusps and tool marks, refining the curves, doing final shaping. It takes forever on these microsculpture pieces." I work around and around and keep finding places I've forgotten. Finally the job is done and I put the brushes away. Picking up the Vertical Roadgrader, used here much as its namesake is, I start to smooth out the sokkel.

"Are ou finished now?"
"Not yet. I have to clean up the base area. It's not finished until I sign it! Right now I'm smoothing things out. I have a friend who does sand sculpture. I keep trying to tell him about quality control and presentation, but he hasn't gotten it yet. Just plops the sculpture on the beach with no framing. It gets lost." I pick up handfuls of sand and toss them around the base. "Now I'm randomizing the area." Finally, I build up a signature pad. "This is it. I'm signing it." I press my hands into the pad. "Done."

"Do you ever name them?"
"Sometimes. I'm thinking of calling this one 'A Gift from God.' In any case, it's 04F-1." This brings the usual laughter. "Lifetime start 283. But it isn't really. I've done something like 400 total. I keep thinking of coming up with a more rational counting scheme, but this one has the history. Arcane, yes." With food to fuel a brain that's gone into the sand my mouth just sort of runs on. I leave Rich to entertain the guests and go about photographing. From all the laughter it sounds as if he's being uproariously successful.

6. Glow

Now, this is a sculpture. It's not just a rehashing of old stuff thrown together. The audience likes it, and I like it, particularly the braided part.
"This is the best microsculpture I've done."
"Yes," Rich agrees. "It's a good one."
"How many have you seen?" Milar asks.
"He's been here for almost every one since the summer of 1995."

The sculpture takes sunlight and warms it, throwing it out through all the little holes. Curves surfaces make interesting shadows. It's all more complex than I could design, and is one of the good surprises of this kind of work. Light unwraps this carved package.

"I'm going to sign off early."
"OK, Rich. What's going on?" The sun is near the horizon. The sculpture is high enough on the beach to be out of the Breakwater's shadow.
"A concert. Chamber music. A trio, I think."
"Sounds good. Have fun!"
"Good night."

Thin clouds near the horizon attenuate the light to remnant subtlety.
"Have you ever been to Burning Man?"
I've seen this man around before, but don't know his name. "No. I've thought about it, but the desert in September? Hot. A friend of mine goes, thought, and gives it great reviews."
"I thought the same thing. Now I've been twice, and wish I'd gone the first time I heard of it. You'd like it. The people there are all your kind, doing art for nothing in the middle of the desert. 30,000 people. Black Rock City. It even has a post office."
He makes it sound so good.

The sun slips below the horizon. Thin bands of cloud light up golden. I load up my equipment and do a last tool check.

It's a good piece. Considering the sand it's made of it looks like a miracle. Coarse sand requires a very delicate touch, precise tool use done right the first time, and that little touch of something extra that holds the impossible together.

"Like what people say to their cars," Milar says. "Come on. You can do it."
"Yes. 'Just a little more, please.' I've been there."
"Look at all these people you've touched today. It's like the food made with love. It makes a difference."

Somehow I am able to see through her eyes, a hint of the way people respond.
"You've given them a gift, something they can take away a bit of."
Others have told me the same thing. For years. Why do I believe her instead of tuning out, as I have before?

I'm glad, anyway. The day winds down into darkness. Milar helps me pull the coupled sand cart-and-trailer train across the beach and watches as I arrange the load for the ride home.

"This is the first day of our trip around the world."
"I hope it goes well. I think it will. You have a good attitude."
"You've given us a good start. Thank you."
"You're quite welcome. And thank you for lunch."
They walk away, toward the Boardwalk. I strap on the last items and push the whole clumsy assemble through the windblown dry sand to the bike path.

Where does life come from? Today has been quite a gift. The normally slow ride is invigorated this night by something. Maybe the energy of all those people who add to the experience. This is why I like winter sculpture.

7. Meetings

Friday night. Lots of traffic, people determined to find someplace where they can have a good time. I wait for lights and dodge cars, finally making it onto side streets and home.

There are two messages waiting. One is Larry, the other the dentist. I wonder what Nate is doing? That Andy hasn't called probably means he'll be here. I call Nate to find out.

"Debbie's sick, man. The other thing didn't happen, so I'll be coming over alone. Where?"
"Casablanca. On the corner of Lincoln and Rose."
"Lincoln and Rose. How do I get there?" There's a pause. "Ocean Park, then south? Debbie's telling me... wait a minute." There's quiet for a bit. "OK. Debbie's coming. We'll be there at seven."
"Good." I wonder what time it is, but my mind wanders off. I should rinse out the sprayer, so I head for the garage.

"That looks like Larry Nelson"
"Yes. Hi, Andy." Forget the sprayer. "The place is a few blocks away. Do you mind walking?"
"No. A walk will be good."
I'm covered with sand. No matter. It won't be the first time the Casablanca folks have seen me this way. I pick up my wallet and we set out.

"How was the sculpture?"
"Oh, it was good. Best post-Mosaic piece I've done. Started about 4:30 this morning, with a long discussion with God about it. And a lovely day."
"That's good."
"Yah. God's message has gotten through. Even I understand a 2X4. 'I get it! I get it! Thank you!' Even I get the point eventually."

At the restaurant I tell the maitre d' that we need a table for four.
"Who are the others?"
"Nate and Debbie. I wasn't sure they'd be able to come." He sits across from me. "So, you're working as technical support at Pepperdine?"
"Yes."
"How'd you get into that?" I've worked with this man for months but know almost nothing about him, and this is why I asked him to come to dinner. For an outfit so strong on community, Mosaic seems very weak on the real operational aspect of it. I, at least, need contact beyond the organized life groups and such. Weakness or strength? Beats me. I just need it. And I know there's a story inside him. There is, too. He's pretty well into it when Nate and Debbie walk in, and the whole situation turns into a free-for-all. It's great. I just watch most of it, being too slow of mind to really keep up with three conversations.

The food is, as usual here, very good. Debbie's eyes go to half-mast.
"I think I need to take Debbie home and put her to bed."
"Something I could use."
"Thanks for suggesting this, man. It's been great."
"Thanks for coming." We part and go our ways into the night.

"We should go see if Chris is in."
"I stopped at his place on the way home from the beach, but he wasn't there." We redirect our path and hear a voice when we get there.
"Prepare to receive a deputation." I'm really losing it. He opens the door anyway.
"What are you doing here?"
"We were in the neighborhood, on our way home from dinner. I did a sculpture."
"How'd it go?"
"Very well. Very nice day."

The conversation goes on from there, with one of the highlights being Chris modelling the latest in church wear: hard hat and goggles. "Those folks really got splattered with whipped cream. And they were wearing black."
"Don't sit in the front rows."
"We should all wear hard hats Sunday."
"And aprons."
"You should have been there the day he broke the radio. He was talking about distractions, picked up a radio that was playing, and just crashed it on the ground. Parts went everywhere."
"I'm sorry I missed it."

Chris eats his dinner as we talk. He'd just gotten home from work. "Tomorrow I'm going to be reading."
"Getting the books back to the library?"
"Yes. And others. So I don't have to move them."

I'm developing ever more tendency to lean. And there's sand all over my legs, that's gradually falling onto his nice clean floor. "I think I've about had it. You two can talk all night, but I need a shower and bed."
"I should get going too," Andy says.
"Thanks for coming by. Come any time. Even after I move. Two miles south."
"OK. Good night."
Andy and I finally finish the walk home, and part when we get to his car.
"Thanks for coming over, Andy. I'm glad I got the chance to hear some of your story."
"Thanks for the invitation. It was fun."

I take the last steps home. 2230. No wonder I'm toast. But this was all worth staying up for.

2004 January 24
minor editing 2005 June 21, and converted to Web format

March 5: 04F-2

2004-01-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

March 12: 04F-3

2004-01-29T09:39:00.000-08:00

March 19: 04F-4

2004-01-28T09:40:00.000-08:00