If she had known there were only three wishes, she would have chosen differently. Obviously. But there had been no instructions, no bullet points. It was another example of the inefficiency of the system. Some opined that the system had grown too big for its own britches, that the safety measure and stop gaps had gotten out of hand. Cynics said the lawyers were behind the crack down. Others insisted the problem was created from a complete lack of imagination. Governor Moonbeam was retiring after eight decades of public service. Some said he would be missed. He told his successor, young Kennedy, “don’t screw it up.” She presumed he meant the ten wishes stockpile of surplus gold. But there were no guarantees, if the three wish rule was enforced. So far, everyone operated on the honor system. She was down to one wish. The books said choose happiness. The ads said choose gluttony. She was pretty sure there was some middle ground. One wish. Puppy breath. Snow. Public nudity. Art. Music. Zero gravity. Invisibility. Hemingway in his Spanish Civil War days. Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. The Columbia Gorge at sunrise in her living room every morning. Polar bears. Bumble bees. Tree toads. Wild salmon. Stories, stories, stories.
Journal Camp Day 4: My Happy Place
There are so many. But for today: my happy place is winter on the upper Bay, a ribbon of asphalt stitched between Sonoma and Marin. The morning drive may kill me one of these days as I become so distracted by the silver light falling out of a low gray sky, rays bouncing like liquid mercury off the tidal flats. To the east, the twin points of Mt. Diablo hover on the horizon. To the south, Mt. Tam, and west across a low stretch of water and the Richmond Bridge, partially obscured in gauzy clouds, the cityscape of SF. It’s nearly unbearably beautiful. All shades of silver, grey, blue. Some days a boa of fog snakes along the Napa or Petaluma rivers. The hills are emerald this time of year and dotted with black angus or with ewes and lambs. This scene is so far removed from the spectre of Sonoma on fire last year: skies brown with ash, the rubble of grass fires charred like a scar from hell. The air now is soft, full of water. The edges of the geography blurred with humidity. When I tell people my commute route, they TSK. “That road is terrible” they say. And I say nothing. I’m not interested in the road. There is a 180 degree carpet of awesomeness rolling beneath the wheels of my car. Let them think what they will. I treasure my vista of Oz in the distance, over the water and partially obscured by droplets of water suspended in air.
Eight out of 10 people believe they have a book in them. Do you need help getting yours out?
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