I am watched and waiting. For what? I am behind the wind sailing. oars are paddling/puddling. oars paddling are not stuck. There is A motion to the breath. To the rhythm of water finding wood. My body is this. What next? Water finding wood.
Parker Pond at 7:45p Friday during the weekly showing of our work. I row in the paddle boat for Carey’s piece and the green oar, splintered and long for my body, finds in rhythm the water of Parker Pond. One oar is heavier than the other, it sometimes hits the metal paddleboat. It’s so loud! Much different from the sound of water finding wood. The sky is reflected gray/blue/purple/pink/orange/silver in the water. No waves. Bebe, Reg, my mates, watching from the Ledges. Tyler singing and playing uke. I left Evelyn on the dock. Halfway across Carey jumps off the boat. She swims to shore.
The circles emanate fOrm from at the paddle, shaped seemingly by hand, or at least with much care. The drops of the pond fall back into itself from the wood – sliding down and off the grain – painted green and weathered. What kind of wood is this? Oak?