The corridor’s best friend and favorite activity is bocce balling on the west coast. The noun and the verb blur, and someone calls Bertrand Russell. Bertrand isn’t worried, he’s watching a ferry operator smile on a narrow part of the Columbia (he’s watching from a cloud, but he’s watching). The corridor and the west coast bocce balled recently at Rialto Beach after the sun had set but the dusk was still light on the water and the waves might have been still getting bigger – it was by the second getting dark enough not to tell. Even in the orange light of enchanted sunset their beauty had been large and dangerous – crashing close enough and loud enough and with enough torrid consistency to dash destruction into the midst of silent awe. But as it darkened and we wrapped scarves around our mouths and pushed hats closer onto our heads we bocce balled best out of three, or up to ten, or some number; throwing the heavy balls with rolling thuds into the damp sand. We were unable to tell their colors as they lay upon the shore; I do not remember who won, but I recall my own performance to be slightly disappointing.
Another dear friend of the corridor is the friendly yellow kitchen above. When asked (skirting presumption) to be publicly allied, the kitchen reminded us that she had practically grown up inside the geographical feature that the corridor (as a written collection of digital mumbo jumbo) both represents and is represented by and thus, it now shall forever live in a still warm place inside of her as she once in it (warm winds and all).
If not for the kitchen we’d still be storing our spices on the back of the stove. Honestly and sadly we actually are still storing our spices on the back of the stove. But now we know enough to, every so often as we push past the five year old tins of cream of tartar and mustard seeds and knock the aging cardamom behind the refrigerator, or while watching the burners set afire beneath a pot of boiling water, idly note: “We ought to move the spices . . .”