alaska

could i tire of waking thus? the sunlight cuts mountains in silohettes of dark green, and grins, unabashed, at temperate sea water that licks at the pelvis of the bay. how could anyone tire of such a scene? hemlock crowds the coast line and a few ceders poke their heads above the masses, the red pines throw their limbs out claiming as much sun as can be taken in such a competitive forest. i am high up in a house made of wood, some ceder, some fir, i gaze out a plane that was once fine rock, this glass eye, and i brush the tops of the trees with my dreams.

few places are as grand as this and those that are may very well lack the magic of this place. i am speaking, of course, about alaska. the great, open, wild, the place of wonder, the last frontier, where people go to remember that they are more than just people, that they are apart of something bigger, that they are small and animal and special and bright. i dream every night. the dreams are clear and real. in fact, i often wake wondering if i had slept at all. people in my past rush up against me with the intensity of the present and i welcome them without question, like no time has passed. perhaps that's why we like to sleep. not only for rest, but for the illusion that time stops. dreams can span years, they progress or regress without consequence, the present is perpetual.

scribbles in Oregon

MAX:

"how many of us lie on a day-to-day basis? do you remember your first lie?"

i don't. how did i know i was lying? i must have felt bad, i mean, i had to have or else i wouldn't know, right? did i feel guilty? have you ever? these are questions i ask you on the train to pass time and we both know there's no point in filling your eyes with more non-sense. i get a sneaking suspicion that i'm dying. don't ask me how. it's just the way my bones feel bumping over these uneven rails in this cool, too cool car. yes, i think i'll explode quietly perhaps right here, right now, while we're talking about lying. lying. what a horrible little mess i'd make (i make) they'd never get this car clean before morning. and what about all the other commuters? maybe i'll quietly errupt when we get home, less of a hassel there, just close the blinds, no one else would need to know.

"what do you think people think about on the train?"

you would rather read your book. you shrug your shoulders. do we think at all? or is there just a dull white buzz at the ends of our spines? i can't stop thinking. ah it never feels good in here. slinking on trains, waiting patiently in my insanity. i rub my head, same metal wall, same sore spot. i'll crack my head open soon if i'm not careful.

7 VIRTUES:

i. insular. i. insular. i insular here. i feel insular here and the wheels keep moving in this place but i hover above like steam over the rich black expanse of french pressed coffee. this is the experience of newness in a manic dance techno-clubbing skin strip. changing hands, exchanging hands, what's to be dealt next? i calibrate myself to the circadian rhythm of the city, or try to at least, just remember to blink

re-cap of my travels, for those following along

i wake up to a beautiful scene. unzipping the tent that's set up on the second floor of this house, i feel i'm play camping, except this is real, this entire life is so bitingly real. and besides, i've grown accustomed to living in a tent. there is something very comforting about such simple accommadations. the small space a sanctuary from the outside world, small enough to seem inconsequential to most passerby, except for the inhabitant who knows that this is the entirety of the little corner of space she requires. and so, i awake in a tent situated by windows that face El Capitan cove. i stretch out my short body and see a fog caught in the middle of sleeping and waking. it, too, is stretching it's slightly bigger body over this cove. the sunlight is orange as it tends to be when in it first spills over the rounded edge of the earth, the light all new and potent, not yet diffused in the atmosphere. i take the scene in, the little boats lodge themselves down in the corner on a placid, reflective water, furry, bristly pines jut out vertically and meet the horizontal fog to frame this work. i inhale. how lovely. how very lucky i am to be in alaska again.

i was just in portland, Oregon and before that i spent some time in the bay area of California. it's been a strange progression from Virginia to here. in Virginia i became comfortable with the speed of the southern life, with the friendly conversations and the slow step. then off to California where things were faster and bigger and "better". luckily i was staying just outside the metropolis of San Francisco, otherwise i would have probably become so deaf and blind, i'd scarcely be able to fumble around in quiet hushes of the woods. i saw all sorts of people in the city. in fact, one could even say, i was becoming an expert at watching people, so, so, so many people in one place and so different, yet so similar. onto berkeley and a different pace, still a city but with a friend who equally enjoyed sitting on benches watching life zoom by. on a train 17 hours north along the coast of California and Oregon. Portland and shopping late into the evening. my first brush with IKEA the swedish furniture company. showrooms and feeling lost, or more accurately, disconnected from my life. too much business, too much impressions and hopeful illusions of permanence. the closing of doors and putting together of beds and tables. yet my writing flourished here, thanks in great part to a lovely porch. good coffee and a very different and cool vibe. and finally here. float planes and good food. family and comfort. waiting for the poop to burn, picking snap peas, canning halibut. then rolling a rock up hill and making a muddy mess in the front yard. cursing the rock, pleading with the rock, cursing again, then retiring for a tub bath.

my life seems so unreal sometimes. i've seen so many things and experienced so many things. i can only feel very fortunate and thankful to all those who have taken me in, spent time with me, talked with me, in essence, shared their lives with me. it has been truly an awesome trip.

here's the rest of it, in case you were wondering. i know it's all or nothing. two absolutes on opposite ends. the symbolism is thick. you want to know what i'm doing and why. i don't recognize my waking places anymore. perhaps i should see a life coach.

enter ellipses

we are strangers again, known to one another as drifting. we are strangers re-meeting, fumbling introductions, but knowing, we are strangers closing in on the same glances and steps, dispersing. we are strangers who never forgot. we are known strangers.

redirecting

flashing, flashing, the air is cool, quite a bit cooler than the bay area of california, but then again, that's no surprise. the sky is grey giving it that melancholy look to inspire close introspection if for nothing more than the elation of feeling one with the masses of dramatists who in looking so deeply within themselves happened upon great universal truths. or so they thought, and so, absolutely, you thought. i see a clearing in a hemlock grove, a clearing, i am certain no one else truly knows or understands, save maybe the native americans because, they, after all, were a spiritually enlightened bunch. i laugh at my romantic infatuation with a gloomy sky. how is it that on the clouded days, i feel i can see more clearly? what a mixed up bumble bee i am.

still. i'm on a porch typing. a black and white cat gently and sleekly ascends three concrete steps across the street. surely this is how any great artist starts, watching cats on the street...hell, we have to start somewhere.

so what am i doing here in portland? redirecting. and recollecting. cashing in the check of my experiences and trying to get these fat and feeble fingers to feel their way through the eons of life that i have been observing. i feel i've been underwater. it's the only way i can describe it because when one is underwater, one feels weightless, motions slow and language, verbal language is halted. there is only sight and touch, a bit of sound. taste is strange. i've observed people like a diver observes the underwater creatures. i record it all in my memory, if only i had a pen that could write under water!

and so, an older gentleman in his late fourties, balding, his hair receding as quickly as his figure, crosses the street wearing a pair of converses with tie dye socks. a squirrel collects nuts. i feel the urge to smoke a cigarette, not because i like them, but because the tone of this scene would comply, encourage it, i dare say. the squirrels here are bold. a beautiful red head, hair long, eyes icy blue but gentle, joins me on the step. i want to touch her but that could come across as a bit rash, a bit too forward. she settles and watches the street. you look so soft, could i, could i offer you a bite to eat? but i dare not disturb. i will accept this distance. just as every orbiting creature touches, not all paths are destined to trace the same pace. it's a difficult concept to understand and yet, it's probably the simplest. we are funny little creatures, making things always more complicated than it ought to be. the cute little red head understands it no doubt but she's a cat after all and as such has always had more sense than people.

mutter, mutter

the majesty of the redwoods is probably too great for my words and how they inspire so many aspiring poets. my head swims in all the light infused images i've seen over the past week. how to transcribe them into black and white, little, uniformed letters? ah.

i don't have a camera save for the one on my cell phone. i'm not sure if i would want one. i have a video camera, but i rarely use it. how come? i fear i will lose all the images i've accumulated in these several splendid months. how long can my memory hold them? but they are so delicate and so utterly amazing that i am afraid to even attempt fixing them to something as prosaic as this virtual page. hrm...maybe i should have taken pictures. i have so many experiences and i should be writing them all. a guilt overwhelms me. but alas, here i am, stalling. my only hope is that someday these varied experiences will manifest themselves into some story, that i will unravel a tear jerking metaphor about everlasting beauty and the Muir woods, or uncontrollable laughter and blasting absurd rap music in a rental car.

why don't i take pictures? is it a mistake? similar to my silly refusal to sign up for airline miles? how long will my memory last?

it's difficult to strike a balance between writing over the experience and not logging the experience at all. i remember when i was younger i wrote in my journal quite often. i catalogued most things, and sometimes i was so busy trying to capture the moment with my writing that i often missed it. i would envy those that could sit and stare at a beautiful scene and let the whole splendid thing wash over them without trying to capture it. now here i am, one of those people and i'm wondering why i'm not recording any of this. i just can't seem to make up my mind.

perhaps it's discipline i lack. i remember i once kept a daily journal for someone. i would collect little snippets from my day and detail them in a small moleskine notebook. i wrote every night. dedication. discipline. of course, i gave this journal away. i wasn't keeping it for me. but i should have. my days recorded. i would have enjoyed re-reading that. remembering the nuances of my days. alas, i lack that discipline for myself.

september 2. that's good enough. today. i'll start keeping a journal today. i chuckle. i've made this promise before. i should really try to keep it.

a time for rest

i'm still vibrating too quickly, the quiver of caffeine or the twitch of intensity, i cannot decide, either way i'm moving much too fast. how do i know? my body. i should be thankful it's only a little cold, a small act of defiance that tells me "today you will rest" despite what your mind says you should do. this is a time for rest.

it's difficult to come down after spending three months running, running, running on the high winds of new experiences, new people, new places, revelations. it all came crashing into me at once and i'm still running, hoping to forcefully and aggressively charge into more change. but my body says enough, enough, enough. it's been a tough three months, going up and down mountains, digging holes, moving rocks, learning about new people, attaching yourself then having to detach so quickly. suddenly i had become responsible for someone besides myself. it was a scary and difficult concept for me to fully comprehend. but now, three months later, i know more acutely the joy of being responsible for just myself again. where once i thought i was limited, i realize i am free. i am free.

but not too free, this body says. don't get carried away, this body says. and so i'm taking the day off. i'm writing again. maybe i'll go for a walk later. but mostly i am enjoying simply passing time. i cannot say when i did that last.

as so i thank my body for gently reminding me that we cannot be all speed, all the time. there must be pause, there must be contemplation, there must be time to let the significance of everything that has been and everything that is sink into you and be known, be known and appreciated.