words & art by shé

bookshelf

Tag: women artists and writers

  • Stinky

    Early one morning in Olympia, Emmett and I went for a ramble and swim at Priest Point Park. Much to his delight, he found a rotting salmon corpse to roll in. Oh, the joy! Not a problem for me until the return drive home, Emmett in the back seat. The stench! Even with all the…

  • Habibi

    Beginning at the Berkeley marina, I drive south for days, seeking out sailboats and surfing when I can: Santa Cruz, Morro Bay, Santa Barbara, Oxnard, Long Beach, Newport, Dana Point, Oceanside, San Diego. Cross the border into México and check out San Felipe, Bahía Tortugas, Santa Rosalia. Spend an afternoon and night at Playa El…

  • Grace

    There are moments of grace and beauty. Blowing bubbles with Antonella was one of them. Let me set the scene: a church group sings nearby of peace and love and liberty; the sun is setting big and orange and low; for the first time in México, the tiny house is unhitched and plugged in; and…

  • Napping Near the Military

    Returning to the States to sign documents, I pulled off the highway to rest, engaging four-wheel-drive. The great thing about México is that you can follow a dirt road as the whim strikes. Many times they lead to interesting places. Sometimes not. I was tired and anxious, and found a spot behind some boulders and…

  • Turning Toward

    Turning toward love is harder than it sounds.

  • Distressed

    So, my baby brother would rather hire an attorney than apologize to me. And, get this, my father paid the retainer. What happened to them? The boy I watched over when my mother was too nuts to do so? The man I adored beyond reason? Wow. Their conduct is hard to comprehend. I am a…

  • Painting

    “Paint the ocean,” said my dad, but I didn’t dare. His huge 3D map of northern California covered a wall of his house, sans sea, and I was afraid to screw it up. I was fifteen. Back in kindergarten, though, I painted a picture for my mother every day, so she would be alive when…

  • Ya Gotta Tell ’em

    Pakala. Lying on my board on a small day, waiting for set waves. A stand-up paddle boarder startles me, swiftly passing on my immediate left. He’s gone before I can say anything, and I bob in his wake. Another SUPer quickly paddles after him, yelling in pidgin, “No do that! Respect da surfers! Whatchu problem,…