Wake up, sleepyhead. Rain outside in the desert, gloom in the pond. Gloom? There is no gloom; hell, there is no pond. Hibiscus dangling, furtive salvia amused, Spanish dagger still with something on the tip of its tongue. These were the days of fire, and yet and yet and yet. The river will run another day, the aquifer will rise again.

Cowbirds patrol, squirrels ransack, cardinals singe the gazing eye. Mesquite bole weighs in the balance, and I am hungry for the return of April.

Roses on the hill: Montrose. A tacit pink below the ashes, fool's gold in abeyance.

Visited with Xelena in her beautiful home over on Monterey. Sister X was there as well, the Dos Equis. Windows open, screen doors lightly slapping, notoriously unJune-like south Texas weather. Coral vines climbing front and back, tiny pink pearls hanging. We sat at the old Formica table in the kitchen, on old pink vinyl chairs. Drank raspberry tea, poured out of a old china teapot into tiny green glass cups. Yemaya sat in her mother's belly, listening.

My baby drew at the table, then wandered yard and house; softly played a drum while Sister X napped in the front room.

Prep for the beach. Mustang Sally's Mustang Island. All the wicked pickets. Down the street, all the pickets snatched for, what, a day, and then back. New pickets? No, they were not new. Took a hike: returned. Does this make sense? Of course not.

But, the beach calls to one and all, even the hallucinators. Especially the hallucinators. Remains to be seen. Were hallucination the price of admission, I would have to pass, this concrete head, boxed in by years of diesel atrophy.

I will call ahead, check the weather, the seaweed count, whether or not the condo has blenders.

Two and counting. Pentecost rained hail this morning, crimson hail, and babies wailing. Robert is baptizing babies this morning—grafting new buds to the root stock, as his children's sermon has it—and we are out another sermon. His favorites, he sez, are the pink ladies: apples, not babies. Can't fault him that, they are luxurious.

Pentecost seems the daze of getting down to it, 49 daze of Easter and a roaring in the wind. Let us babble together, babyl on.

Did I like wearing red, in a blaze of muted glory? We were all flames, all tongues of fire.

Whose voice, this hesitant hard-scrabbler, stumpbacked, weary, lost? Whither the poet, player, lounge lizard—juggling, tossing, an avalanche of words. I have never known such difficulty.

An hour ago, I would have launched, but my grasp of work is loosening. Will I know the place upon my return? How long before familiarity sets in? These are the fading days, the end of loose anarchy. The reign of fierceness begins.

Tomorrow, the beach. Ferry to the mustangs, swim to the dolphins, stand with the great blues. I miss that cafÃÆ'©, a blink of an eye it was, but oh so savory.

Sweet Neena, cinnamon deva, always there to bless Walden's path. On to Susan and Jesse's, non-Ollie on his way, days of counting, to be born down by the river, just like his dad. We sat up top in the pecan trees: Walden slipped right into yet another family. Two male noodleheads spoke their noodled nonsense, while the two women spoke of the days to come.

I can't get over being in the trees again, as we were on Bridle Path, and again on St. Mary. It's wonderful to be with the trees; how much more wonderful to be in them.

Mr "I am not going in the ocean"led the charge to the beach and into the water. I no longer think of the Texas gulf as gray: yesterday it greened into blue—Miles' blue in green? It was an endless four hours of which likely would have gone on forever had the mystery jelly not appeared and stung Yemaya's Babe. Perhaps his hesitation was mere (mere?) precognition. I carried him to the condo, we "tenderized"him, and he was quickly his beachfront Fred Astaire self all over again, with just a dose of the return of "I am NOT...-

A mother walked out of the ocean yesterday with her tiny babe. Tiny babe. Sat with her in the shallows, slept with her under a small tented cover. At one point, the babe cried: mother walked her back into the waves and fed her from a bottle. I thought of Xelena and Yemaya, wondered if Y were on her way: today was Xelena's guess. Tina would have nursed the babe, as will X.

Trio of blonde boys climb into a black truck with Mom and Dad. Palm trees, grey clouds, seagull coasting. White shines on the water, air is still.

Last day at the water. I want to take it back with me, flood the house, the yard, the neighborhood, Little and Big Lake Olney, Blue Hole, downtown, Alta and Monte Vista, King William, Guadalupe, Southside, Atascosa, Cibolo, San Pedro Springs, and Resurrection. Blue and green to the Four Winds, blue in green in our hearts, hands, minds; blue in green in espaÃÆ'±ol, auf Deutsch, in the Polish of the Black Madonna, her blue in red swamped by blue in green. Blue in green—come on, vamanos!—on Tina, on Walden, on Melanie, on Bobbie, on Edwin and Patsy's labyrinth.

Victorious, we watched as our leader plummeted hundreds of feet to his death. I moved quickly to gather us: why this need, tradition, to stand in glory and at the edge? Word came back that he was living. How could this be? Still, I saw him, wrapped in white linen, naked and frail underneath, head wounded, but alive.

Yemaya's electric blue was in the sand with us: tiny, but brilliant and shining. She was in the wind with us as we journeyed home in the dark: ocean, channel, bay, pond, lyric, three rivers. Did she light or is she waiting?

Prowling the sixth floor of the downtown library—the red enchilada—in search of Levertov and Mary Oliver, lights flash, accompanied by bureaucratic cybervoice exhorting me to vacate the building, NOT by elevator, but by the nearest stairwell. Predictably, I am more pissed off about the unchecked-out books I must leave behind, than by the possible harm to self. Innocence still reigns, I suppose: it is assumed that the alarm is a false one, not the imminent tumbling of concrete upon my thick head. I walk the six floors down, followed by a pounding evacuee a few floors behind me.

Students and faculty milling outside locked doors this morning. I am back after a glorious 2 week vacation. Thirty minutes before someone with a key shows up—again, let's not talk about why faculty members do not have their own keys—God forbid any education will break out unsupervised.

Calmly, I took in the news, after the doors opened, that—no surprise here—our program will be discontinued in 3-4 months. My plan was to leave "in earnest"after my return from vacation, anyway. Well, here's your focus, buddy. It's actually, good, it's okay, it's clean. Time to move on.

Foggy this morning, very foggy: the wages of capitalism—work alienates the body. Hats off to Fourier, and Breton's attempt to resurrect him. You won't find him at your corner store—you won't find your corner store, for that matter. You might still find your corner.

Describe him. "A presence."Is NiÃÆ'±o Fidencio a presence? You bet. Ask the thousands in Espinazo. Ask Veronica's parents, ask Alicia in Piedras Negras. Ask el viejo at Modernos behind the piano, next to the parchment paper dance floor. Ask Elizabeth Casal, if she's still there to ask: now there was a corner store.

Try again: describe him. Annie sees him on his haunches in the corner, watching, vigilant. Another time she's in the can. These are not auspicious sightings. Bedros, naked on the lake, swims ashore. Fish fry, wind off the lake, brothers with a fresh haul. Imagine a troll—is that even possible?

Brother works; Son of Man works. For me, there is quiet, serene quiet. Lakeside, evening, sun slipping behind the mountains. Tent behind me, a deer walks up through the trees, grazes. Water slaps the shore, great blue heron flies, Brother Man sits down, asks a question, tells a story.

"Baby, I'm on fire (say my name)."Not mine to claim, save the time spent down at the caffeinated altar of funk. Limestone on the river, Yemaya's archiviste returns. The angle of the Nix slices the eye, the mochachocolattayaya is just right.

This morning smelled like ninety miles to the west and forty years closer to the source: sun through grey scuttling clouds and the smell of long grass already beginning to bake. Caliche roads, silence, in the foothills, might as well be African savannah. Red house, screen porch, Bob Guthrie and the farm reports, tempest brew in the teapot.

Daze of old it would have been an avalanche, a prose poem, a badly staunched artery—there were words to blow and more. Now they crawl, rats in the hoard, the aquifer is dropping, limestone as a drying sponge.

Walk the gorge: Glacier's, the scar north of Pilar, the tiny hairline fracture through Austin. Cenizo blooms, water rises, clouds looming out of the west. It hailed out of nothing.

Down out of the snows at Medicine Lodge, Thermopolis was yellow manna, scalded memory, ease for the feet. At Ojo, we climbed stark hills in winter, dreamed of Mabel and Lawrence.

Yes, tis the Season of the Witch, but the windows are open and cool air is, well, not exactly pouring in, but indeed it is a-comen in (that's meant to be just a tad Chaucerian). One of the joys of south Texas summer hell: climate one-upping the climatists. Woke late to thunder roll, deluge, and now this.

Galaxy 22 fed bodies and souls again last night: Palestinian amigo touched his heart as we left: he knows we love his feasts. What my love loves, I love. And since this is the Unnamed Weekend, I get to love it even more.

Two daze of rain now, blessings in the night. Bible class this morning, I polled the three women there about this "resurrected body"thing. Each of them steered clear, not out of fear: whether or not is unimportant to them, not what proves the pudding. Saradell says that the "after"is not what is important to her: Jesus said, Follow me. She recalls the fear of the small group of followers after his death: something happened to turn their fear to courage, to faith, to joy. That something, whatever it might be, is her resurrection.

This, to the concrete man.

Grace breaks through, he said, and this is what we pray for, the break-in. Lord, burglarize me, break and enter, take what you will, just please, please, please, leave the blender, the Alice Notley books, and the new dental floss, the soft stuff. The rest is yours. What was it Freddie King sang? "She's a burglar—she broke it to my heart."Well, break in, Lord: no burglar bars, no alarm system, no dead bolt locks: how simple is that? John Lee Hooker: "strip me, strip me.-

Freddie King, Randy's Rodeo, San Antonio, Texas. Not a clue what hit us.

Let me make one thing clear: this is my space. Twitter all you want elsewhere, this place I claim as mine. You needn't wonder about me, attempt to speak for me, or entreat me. Just sit down and get out of the way.

Pay attention to those feelings in your body: your time is a gift, it needn't be filled all the time with your self-generated fluff. Those impulses you have had over recent weeks to clear your decks are good ones. You need quiet to hear me and I need quiet to hear the world, the more than world.

First, a rumble in the quiet, tightness in the throat. More rumble, more quiet, the tightness eases. A garage door closes. Just what was in that Miami bowl? Belief? Imitation leather? Chicken fajitas? (The twitterer is back.)

I planned to cut away from the world and then someone responds—that's a heart out there on the page, an owl at that. How far would you take it? Is balance an option? Was balance ever an option for you?

Draw near. How is that, exactly? Toni says she let it grow cold. Drew up, not near. Travel plans shot, deskbound, fetal.

Writer's block on 100 words? Come on, dude: chill out: it's all about context. Trying to be way too serious, mon. Gimme some kind of sign, girl and you are all over the place. Starbucks listening station mania and you can't stop, cuz lightning striking again, you know? Let it buzz.

The new Episcopal presiding bishop, better known as the primate, preached a sermon that invoked Mother Jesus: the worldwide Anglicans, and some west Texas bevos, be quiverin'. What a cool twist from Ms Katherine—Daughter/Son of Woman/Man. Any father worth his salt knows that he is a mother, too.

"Joy. Joy to be. Joy to be here with you. Joy to be here with me..."Mr Pendergrass be the man, not the only, cher, but one enough. Long developed dream this early morning, science fiction Gothic. While having it, watching it, I thought (yes), this is a best-seller, with sequels at that. Agent Cooper, do you remember the dream? Not a bit.

Up earlier than I expected, though W is back off dozing after his rough night. His cup of chamomile tea is here to soothe my foggy brain. T, Jumanji, Periwinkle, Wat and D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths.

How to connect again with the world in this infernal heat? I spent the day yesterday reading Mary Oliver, glorying in her songs of praise, yet aching in my recent estrangement. That last day at Malaquite was treasure.

I need to seek out the water that is here: downtown, at the Word, Cathedral Park, River Road: I need to be near rushing water, the sound that takes me out of myself. I need to do this on a regular basis, not months later, after I'm wrung dry. I need to climb back out and find my own hymns of praise.

Time spent yesterday with W at "John Garner,"as he puts it. He was decked out in his new soccer threads, looking like a little blaze of glory. We started out on the football field in the sun, then shifted around behind the stands to a big patch of shade. Took turns as goalies in front of a section of fence. No running water, but still it felt good to break out, sweat, and kick the ball around. From there, we wandered the aisles of Whole Foods, found the organic manna—er, cherries—and rejoiced. Home to share the news.

Saturday night, I stumbled upon a page on the Episcopal Diocese of West Texas website about "vocation-; no secret that this is an obsession now, and something I have been praying about: I really feel that I need God's help. On the page was a quote from Frederick Buechner, as well as one from 1 Corinthinians about different gifts. Sunday morning, Norma indulged us with a bit of lectio divina: the very same passage from Corinthians.

I think this is true: I doubt my ability to follow whatever path is shown me, more than I doubt a path being shown.

Slo-mo morning, no classes, so indulgence time. Slo-mo'ed to Central Market first, coffee in the luxuriously cool air. Sparrows sat with me on, under, and around the table while I read. Cute butlers in their spiffy weskits. Dapper, yet understated. Tina has shown me their beauty.

Chapel quiet here in the student-less classroom, nursing the second coffee, surfing the 43 net. Ordered Bauby and Hawking, spilling out of last Sunday's class.

Sat for three hours last night in the day going down at Walden's soccer (football!) camp. He was in heaven, goalie for Spain. "Is it 8:30 yet?""No.""Good!!!-

Read Mary Oliver this morning before heading out, limning the meridians of praise. I want my eyes and heart open as I meet the day. Sitting at the light at Broadway and Central Market, the crepe myrtles were in bloom, filling the eye. Noise and chatter do not light the path.

Last night, as I drifted, I asked that God continue to massage my soul. This conversation still takes getting used to. I've been asking to be shown, having forgotten that the answers are always right in front of us. I lack confidence in being able to see the obvious.

Again, clearing the blur out with MO: she makes it look so easy, her immersion and what she brings back. This morning routine of MO and then stopping by Central Market for the day's strong is awfully tantalizing. Naughty boy. Another hour of chapel quiet before folks start showing up for class, the mornings are liquid.

Back out at the soccer rodeo last night, baked desert slowing to limpid Arles, buttery light: sun dips behind a low bank of clouds: mauves and pinks. Breezes whisper, the soccerbugs chatter. Green grass to loll in, as Walden loves to do as drama-goalie.

After the mini-World Cups, we were still hungry for more. Headed to "John Garner"to kick the ball around past dark. Practiced kicking exclusively with my left foot, an endless array of goofy spirals.

Wonderful again to watch the day go down: practice started in blazing heat, even the trainers were dragging. Who can blame them—what are temperatures in Birmingham and Scotland this time of year? But, as the sun dropped down behind its bank of clouds, the air cooled, breeze came up, and the light buttered again.

Home to dinner and Tina. The triumphant striker told his tale.