April 18, 2002

There were rocks with waves on them.
There was a little old man with a corncob pipe and an oilskin cap on his head.
There was a restaurant with a waitress who poured you strong coffee, very very strong.
There was the smell of bear – no, the hint of bear, and not just any bear, just bear.
You could take the scenic route or you could decry the scenic.
But a series of color-coded dots defined the scenic for you.
If you followed the dots, you apprehended the scenic in a fashion adequate enough to pass a quiz written according to state-mandated standards for the scenic, a true revenue multiplier.
And if you passed the quiz, you could write a poem with the scenery inside it.
You could take bits of scenery – the rock, the pines, the old man, his rainslicker, his corn-cob pipe, the waitress (dressed any way you wish), the diner’s 50s decor – not, mind you, reconstituted in a lab, but the real, unspoiled thing – place them in a bag, shake the bag, take the pieces out, add extraneous comment or customized personal dilemma or psychological crises, or believing things have a life of their own, leave the personal stuff out entirely, and boom, you will storm the periodicals.
The old man, the waitress, among the pines, outside the diner, the old cafeteria soup bowls with blue Saturnine rings unwashed, or among the rocks with waves on them, or the old man alone, smoking his corn-cob pipe, or the waitress alone, or waiting tables in the restaurant, with news featuring rocks and waves and boats or maybe a corncob pipe or two, always by the seaside, or among the pines. They’re waiting for you, every one of them.