Upside Down Kris

Small on the Sea Looking down on it from the pier, it seemed sturdy in its squareness. It wasn't huge, but could sit six people: three in the back, one at the controls, and two in the   front. I wasn't expecting to ride in the skimmer but I'm always ready for adventure, so I hopped in. I had assumed I would watch the regata from the nearby beach, even though I wasn't really sure what a regata was. I had pictured a procession of sailboats serenely shifting by like I had seen in St. Augustine, but there was nothing serene about this one. I had a front row seat which was completely exciting and scary at the same time. I quickly acquiesced that while we were trying to skim the surface of the sea, she was swirling up and down, sideways and backwards. She was the Ruler  and wanted us to know that. My stomach sloshed with the boat's swallowing downward movements and I was glad I hadn't eaten breakfast. I felt the piece of sandwich I had bitten off before stepping into

War Vacation A section of June in my cute cat calender on the kitchen wall has been torn out for a collage. (When art calls, it calls whether the month is finished or not!) This is how I found July waving at me as it peeks through from under half June. My eyes are drawn to "WWI begins." I do a double take. What? WWI began in July? The July of fireworks and picnics for a proud Independence day. Of sun and sea or maybe a lakeside. Of catapulting into the water of Grafton Park or maybe exploring the escarpment of the Indian Ladder Trail at Thatcher Park.  The July of my childhood meant no school and summer vacation.  But there was a moment in history–maybe more than one for all I know–in which they actually started a war in summer. No frolicking in the fields in the Alps, no making mud pies after a rain. It was time to make war.  How did  WWI really begin, anyway? I am not a history buff, but I know the tip of the iceberg was the assassination of the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferd

Style and Magnetisim The man with the bigote was not a bigot but a guy with a handlebar mustache. He touched the curled tips and found they were greasy from ketchup and other condiments from his hotdog. I had always wondered what happened when a beard gets slobbered with sauce or clobbered with crumbs. Can you just brush them out in one, clean stroke? And are there beard brushes? The man with the bigote didn't need any of these devices, however. He simply cleaned the handlebars with his fingertips. He (and the mustache) never stopped being elegant–the grease only served to make its tips curl even more. You see, bigote means mustache in Spanish, although the man in question was Belgian. And he spoke English, as well as French and Spanish. What a curious mix of cultures and languages! And we both met in Gran Canaria to go to a festival of bands. The man was a mix of many things, not the least being his clothes. He wore his hodgepodge of styles well. My first impression of him was the

  Fluxus So, I might as well face it–this fluxus of life into death, death into life. This mix of going and things to come, of ephemeral moments and the permanence of memory, the light sand of the skin blowing into the sea and the heavy tide pulling in again. How the ocean can help hold this idea–the undercurrents of a life wave never to surface agin while the impulse for a new wave gathers strength and sputters out on the top. Also the confusion stretching back and forth, the not knowing which is on its way back to the water and which clings to the sand. So, let's get the going over first: a star of a cousin fallen into the sea. His heart was so big it burst-or tore. He has already guided so many ships with his light and will continue to do so. A few days later, the father of a friend also fell into the sea. May he float away as gently as he can. At the same time, the celebration of the birth of an island–the gaity lasting for days as the drums still sound in my head. And the cele