I've commandeered the computer in the basement of a Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin house just to put some thoughts down because I intelligently forgot to bring at least a small notebook to write my observations and inspirational lines in while I was here in the rolling verdant foliage of Wisconsin.
Susan, Tadd's mom, and I went to a park called Cave Point (I'll post pictures later-maybe), and the sound of the waves hitting, splashing, pounding (whatever verb you want to insert) the rock cliffs was the most powerful sound I've heard in a long while.
To try to capture the way Cave Point struck me creatively, I jotted down a rough paragraph:
"Cave Point"
Lauren Young
The waves fingered the cliffs
carved by the cruel ice
with ambivalence,
threading foam underneath
to where the caves met a
vast horizon clouded with
a periwinkle blue, curtains of
rain falling on a distant finger
of dark, woodborn land.
Don't laugh at the attempt, ladies and men. Rough, I did stipulate: rough.
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