Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Beach Memories
Memories from the Ancient Vacation
- My crown was made of construction paper, adorned with crayon-drawn jewels. A gift that was handed down from generations past (starting with my big sister).
- Ribbon kelp, broken sand dollars, seagull feathers, were my minions.
- The waves marked the boundaries of my sandy realm, beyond them, ships teetered on the curve of the round world. Fools!
- My scepter was a lone wooden chopstick, blessed by the sand dune fairies, painted purple with glitter.
- Roasted marshmallows were the staple food of my land, harvested from plastic bags, which grew wild in the grocery store.
- There were morning rituals to be performed, such as the hallowed mini-boxed cereal, opened along perforations. An elixir was added, milk. I would bless the brew with a plastic spoon.
- In my kingdom nothing was saved. Saving was sacrilegious. It was barbarian to wash a utensil and reuse it. Paper plates were saints. So, it was written, so it was done.
- I wore a bathing suit and rubber sandals. It was a commandment from the priests (mom and dad). I was to look as idiotic as possible. That was the way to true enlightenment.
Memories from the New Vacation
- My crown was a snapback cap with my favorite sports team logo, even if I didn’t have a favorite sports team. Even if I didn’t like sports.
- My minions were, apps, emojis and text messages. Even selfies followed me!
- The beach marked the boundary of my condo, where people were known to walk! Fools!
- My scepter was an iPhone, blessed by the corporate fairies called computer programmers.
- Marshmallows were replaced by tempeh, harvested from plastic bags which grew wild in the “natural” section of the grocery store.
- Sugar cereal was banished, replaced by (gulp) unsweetened granola with vanilla almond milk (cheater)
- In my kingdom nothing was saved. Saving was sacrilegious. It was barbarian to be caught with technology older than 2 months. So it was texted, so it was done.
- I wore Crocs clogs, with cargo shorts. I didn’t need mom and dad to help me appear idiotic. This is the way to true enlightenment?
Rampant Dust
We’re rampant dust with sunlight between our fingers.
Check out more images here.
Ghost Story For The Wilderness Impaired
Timothy Lake July 2018
She’s a ghost. I know that. She brushes her fingers along my shoulders and I will look up to find her playing among the trees, pretending to be the wind. She’ll drop a pinecone or a small branch as a reminder. Then, off she goes to the deeper part of the forest where I can’t follow. She laughs. I can’t hear it, but I know she’s laughing.
This spirit of hers doesn’t frighten me. But there are times when the forest is as still as death. It’s upon these moments, in silent life, when I look behind me on the trail and shudder in my aloneness.
She returns, that’s what ghosts do, with her sound, a rustling, a stirring, a theme she buries deep inside me. Its tune reminds me that I’m also a ghost. At times, this makes me sad, to know I’m as invisible as her, but it’s her way of empowering me, to haunt. I can’t help but to be…a ghost.
I can tell you this one thing. It’s the only thing I really, really know. If you listen, you will also know you’re a ghost. Even when you’re in the middle of nowhere, look up, and see a jet leaving contrails high in the sky, above the wilderness, without making a sound.
Searing Times
I wish I could dance in this wind. But its heat wilts me, keeps a dull, slight fever about my skin. I feel it drags everything into a blur, the flora, the fauna, the restless water, the dry grass. There’s so many separate lawns being watered in the midst of this drought.
I await the first flirt of coolness, a gift from the ocean, when the wind tugs at my hand and compassion soothes the baked streets, the overdone frenzy.
Moon Jelly
A Last day of blue.
Found on Clatsop Spit, August 2018
(Click on image to enlarge it and check out more of Elan’s photos here.)
Carpet Layers
The carpet prevents slipping where spills occur, dims the reflection of lights, dampens the loud echo of hard shoes.
After years of soft walking, threads come loose, seams come undone. Underneath, a scuffed tile, a glimpse of all the slips, reflections, and echoes, their texture, their history.
We cover the tile with a new layer, restoring the delicate numb.
Ramona Falls’ Mist
Ramona’s whisper requites us to ourselves—our fires extinguished, our thirst sated.
That voice, a pact between mountain and moisture, is a quiet call to us
The stumbling pilgrims, forest wanderers, wishful sages who suffer from acute chatter.
Its language—slow—near wordless, near nothing, paints upon the brow reminders…
Of lost talk of the ancient shape of myths, wrapped around delicate, heavy truths,
Source of our combined story.
We arrive with city hands, parched
To drink for the first time—again.
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