the inner layer of abalone

1. My friend said this length of linen, ecru, wrapped with hemp string, dyed with indigo, reminds her of the inner layer of abalone. Yesterday I took the fabric out of a trunk to look at it and wonder. Wonder, as in: what will I do with 5 meters of linen rippled and marbled as abalone, or water holding the light. I have no idea.

2. Swimming this morning, I thought of the linen, thought of shells, abalone shells, the pores of their outer edges. The one found on a wild beach, the one hanging from a string on the deck.

3. First thing, before the swim, before any kind of thinking, a link arrived for an essay: https://www.thetemzreview.com/kishkan.html Reading it, I am surprised to find string, swimming, a shell, watery light.

On the shelf in my bedroom, the tiny oyster shell I sometimes wear on my ankle in summer, a strand of 3-ply thread holding it in place. The shell and I both long for warm weather, the wild water of the lake I love.

4. What will I do with 5 meters? I wish I could hang the linen from the crown of a Douglas fir and let it flutter in the wind. Maybe curtains. Maybe a summer tent, light coming through the ripples of indigo.

5. In the kitchen, a big jar of shells, tiny lights on copper wire strung through them. Shells from Mexico, Tofino, Oyster Bay, Sechelt. Thick rope to hang the jar from a hook outside.

6. In the small hours I got up to pee and returning to my bed, I saw that moonlight had settled on my pillow, waiting for me. If I’d drawn the curtains before going to sleep, it never would have found me.