And so it came to pass
the end of everything,when clark went away.
The fidel built the monastary.
the quiet was broken only by the sounds of tools
down the canyon at the coast highway
the window looking into the skylit showroom softly lit the finished boards.
donations of remnant foam crafted into fine waveriders
new fast growth redwood bookmatched ,curly,fiddleback and straight grain
literally glowed in the mid day sun.
The three small ,relativly ,sixty foot converted seiners cargo boats
provided the balsa,cedar and fir.
Semi annual junkets spanning the hemispheres
bringing true materials into the fold
like the final whipped eggwhites to the rellenos made the difference.
small communities harvesting renewable wood
cherry picking and selecting the lightest tightest figured wood
for the monastary…
the oldest guys were here,names memorable and of no particular note
running kilns , steamers ,boil tanks ,and presses.
the funds came from nowhere ,and the store on he highway.
the only public access to the grounds were by way of the
fish tank surv cams .The international web seminars were instrumental
in the growth of wood board ware.
Interaction was the norm
students spread thin accross the globe could confrence with the master sculptor in process.
some talked the whole time fielding questions
others were silent unless they were inbetween passes.
the reservation was the umbrella for these refugees
sovreignty insulated the monastics from woe.
the food was grown on site and locally
the game in the canyon was seasonal.
the monastary was only a dream.
Until after the fall .or the cataclysm
as st.dora the maligned predicted
… ambrose…
the waves in the cove
got really good
once in a while