Eden Mills

There were many spiders at Eden Mills. Mostly dark red, smaller than the head of a pin, spiders small enough to climb single hairs in the down of my bare arms, to spread webs between the hairs, a sensation delicate and intimate as fingerprints. A fine accompaniment to Richard Wright reading Clara Callan, which stirs the same kind of feelings.

Eden Mills was sure swell. Starting the morning with Christian Bok is like the punch of double espresso. Starting the morning with Christian Bok in a dry hot field with two hundred other people, getting a sunburn down the left side, is like a rocket trip to caffiene heaven.

And George Elliot Clarke is pure jazz.

My own reading went well. Thanks to Catherine, Pat and Eric, Dan, and of course James for turning out. Saw some great writers, drank six liters of water and still got dehydrated, danced at the drumming circle, fell in the creek, ran into Shelagh Rogers but did not knock her down, bought homemade lemonade, meet a lot of other interesting "Fringees," and may even start a writing group. And had pecan pie for dessert. What a day!