About four this afternoon, it occurred to me that I could write on oyster shells and then place them by the half dozen on the oyster plates I bought in Seattle last spring. Funny how ideas just spring from thin air. I keep going out to the oyster pile behind my studio and bringing handfuls of shells into the kitchen sink to scrub. I am loving them and know that I'll use them in many more ways than simply banked against the Bayou, Bay, Beach table at Second Seating. I am really loving them.
What if we actually found messages in oyster shells after we'd eaten the oyster?