the desert is an interesting place that seems to spawn many big questions, the biggest perhaps being, what is life? what is the meaning of all of this? and, of course, why am i here? i'm not sure what exactly about the desert encourages such musings on universal meaning, perhaps its the wide open, vast, omnipresent connection to the sky, no trees to shelter you from the big, unblinking, omnipotent star we call the sun. or perhaps it's the fact that sitting out in the desert so thoroughly fries your skull that your brain is warmed up to a temperature of spiritual seeing, perhaps there's just so much energy coming into you at one time that the intense focus of light unlocks mysteries of the cosmos. then again, it could be heat stroke. whatever the cause, these mountains and chiseled rocks bring forth wonder.
i sat on a large boulder half way up the grisly form of Mount Lemmon. there i watched the sun set. the mountain ranges scooted away further and further into the horizon giving me the allusion that i was out in the middle of the ocean watching waves like mountain ranges, crashing against some foreign shore. will i ever reach beyond those mountains? and if i did, and i looked back, would i remember sitting here? will i ever be able to comprehend space that extends beyond my visual perception? to know, intimately every tract of land that i ever crossed, so should i go blind on3 day, i would have the entire world mapped in first-person picture frames?
i thought about seeing, as i always do, and with that, perception. why was i not happy? how could i look at such beauty, the beige sandstone rocks brought into visual relief by rusted red stone and carved into multi-sensory detail by a blue, blue sky, how could i look at this and not see? i was thinking of something else, responsibilities, friends not present, pain in my knees, letters i should be writing, i was honing in on everything but the gift set in front of me. but the desert is vast, and open, and blaring. it took a few hours, but i felt myself calm down as the sun began to sink. the landscape changed, beige rocks became lilac colored, what a visual feast! it is no wonder artists often paint the desert. no place is as clear or vibrant.
they say that everything in the desert is out to kill you, which is easy enough to see. most things that live in the desert are tough out of necessity, it's a harsh environment everyone knows. thus, most things come with thorns or stingers or razor sharp teeth. to the desert, i am thankful for the wisdoms it has already bestowed upon me. the first realization is the power of the senses. the desert has rekindled my awareness of my connection to the physical world. the beautiful vistas i see, the colors of sand, and mountains and saguaros, the hot, hot sun i feel flooding my being, the smell of plants transpiring in the heat, taste of water more sweet and satisfying than the greatest culinary masterpiece, the sound of the wind rushing round the desert walls. my senses become sharp and penetrating as a desert thorn. the second realization is more metaphysical/spiritual. the desert gives a sense of openness, a touch of being solitary, unique, entire, standing out against dramatic backgrounds. most importantly the desert reminds me to be thankful for what is provided, to learn to do without, to remember that life is not some easy luxury, rather that you are here because you were meant to be. it's harsh out here, in the world, the desert environment is perhaps the most obvious indicator, but here you are, nevertheless, in this strange and beautiful place, living, despite the odds. that's a damn amazing thing isn't it?
Monday, November 1, 2010
a rant, is a rant, is a rant
in tucson arizona, in a room that is not mine. i've been discovering lately that very few things are mine. this, of course, upsets me a little, especially when one is desperately looking for a place to call one's own. of course, i'm talking about wolff's astute observation that every writer needs a room of her own. i would also like to add ms. wolff that any human being, not just the writer or the artist, needs a room, concrete or metaphorical, to call one's own.
i have also re-discovered (and i say re-discovered because this is a truth i already know but often times seem to forget) that i am a very fickle little artist. that is to say, my mind is not unlike a sacred budhist temple. this isn't to assume that my thoughts are somewhat holy, so please don't regard me as being so arrogant, rather, like a sacred temple (it doesn't have to be buddhist, i just know they have lots of temples and the asian thing is so in right now) my mind has much going on internally that does not manifest itself in noises, in the gutteral frequencies that we call speech, and it's so very fragile and tenuous really that any clamoring, yipping, yapping or otherwise presence of other human beings (i don't have problems with the other creatures...perhaps because i cannot tune in as easily to their conversations and therefore can often easily filter out their noises) can disrupt the gentle fabric of thoughts and the infrequent and delicate wisps of creativity that somehow drop into my brain.
ah, and so, i am in tucson arizona trying to find the balance between my solitary and somewhat grouchy and socially disagreeable writer self, and my all-observing, socially vibrant writer self (perhaps "socially vibrant" might be a stretch, but you get the picture). and so, like any writer, i'm turning my rant into a blog post, but i must put all revelations (often birthed by rants) onto the page so that i might reference them later. and so here is the bottom line, i am a fickle human being, moreover, i'm an extremely fickle writer. in fact, writing has become a sort of magic that can only be produced under the finest conditions such as having a quiet space with absolutely NO human voices, preferably in the morning with multiple cups of coffee at my disposal. now that i've written it, i realize i'm not really asking for the world. it just seems like it when you are traveling with five other people all the time in a van, going to places you've never been to, with spaces that aren't yours. i sit back and dream of my grandmother's house. how i cannot wait to sit and write in silence and coffee, write, write, write, til death do us part.
i have also re-discovered (and i say re-discovered because this is a truth i already know but often times seem to forget) that i am a very fickle little artist. that is to say, my mind is not unlike a sacred budhist temple. this isn't to assume that my thoughts are somewhat holy, so please don't regard me as being so arrogant, rather, like a sacred temple (it doesn't have to be buddhist, i just know they have lots of temples and the asian thing is so in right now) my mind has much going on internally that does not manifest itself in noises, in the gutteral frequencies that we call speech, and it's so very fragile and tenuous really that any clamoring, yipping, yapping or otherwise presence of other human beings (i don't have problems with the other creatures...perhaps because i cannot tune in as easily to their conversations and therefore can often easily filter out their noises) can disrupt the gentle fabric of thoughts and the infrequent and delicate wisps of creativity that somehow drop into my brain.
ah, and so, i am in tucson arizona trying to find the balance between my solitary and somewhat grouchy and socially disagreeable writer self, and my all-observing, socially vibrant writer self (perhaps "socially vibrant" might be a stretch, but you get the picture). and so, like any writer, i'm turning my rant into a blog post, but i must put all revelations (often birthed by rants) onto the page so that i might reference them later. and so here is the bottom line, i am a fickle human being, moreover, i'm an extremely fickle writer. in fact, writing has become a sort of magic that can only be produced under the finest conditions such as having a quiet space with absolutely NO human voices, preferably in the morning with multiple cups of coffee at my disposal. now that i've written it, i realize i'm not really asking for the world. it just seems like it when you are traveling with five other people all the time in a van, going to places you've never been to, with spaces that aren't yours. i sit back and dream of my grandmother's house. how i cannot wait to sit and write in silence and coffee, write, write, write, til death do us part.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Putting pen to Pennsylvania
(Condition/Place): I’m sitting in a house that I do not belong in. I try to remind myself to be thankful for the shelter because what are houses but glorified shelters, ones we soak with all sorts of symbolism?)
(Summary/Time): So what has happened in my long absence? I have holed myself away in the dense woods of the Allegheny National Forest writing letters, digging, pondering my future, my patience, my presence. Most times I just shoot the breeze with the boys. I sleep atop three sleeping pads, one, my personal deflated pad which acts mostly as a moisture absorber, and two foam pads. The three pad system keeps me barely comfortable. I live alone, which is nice, since I have a very small tolerance for ruckus of any kind until I am sound asleep. My tent is simple and perfectly sized for me. I keep things neat, one has to, especially when the nomadic life is your specialty. The clan will not wait for the slow, rather they’ll leave you to the bears. Ah, but in reality (and facing the obvious lawsuit) they do wait, with the occasional grunts and puffs (blame it on fatigue we say, which is, in a way, true; we’re all tired of one another). And so everything has its place should a sudden wind of restlessness brush my face, my feet moving toward the distant hills before my head has had a chance to swallow the notion let alone process exactly what to “pack”. The layout of my tent is entirely functional, which is to say, I pay absolutely no attention to feng shui, that’s the privilege of the stationary soul. No, my humble abode reflects the practical to the highest degree. It’s glory and a majority of the space is dedicated to a warm slumber nest. An all-down, burnt orange sleeping bag lay in heat giving significance atop my three sleeping pads. I then cover the sleeping bag with another, lighter weight bag that I have on loan. A small fleece that I procured from the Goodwill, is balled up by my feet. Next to my shrine of sleepdom is my pack, resting on its back, head off, my clothes pulled out and stuffed back in like some twisted disemboweling, emboweling ritual. Above the pack and close to my head (and heart) is a small library, a lovely collection of books I brought from home, some that have been sent to me while here and of course, as any addict is expected to do, the ones I bought while in Pennsylvania. (I have no self control). I have even improvised a clothes line (if you can call it that, it’s more like a small slip of string) in my tent to dry out my ever soggy clothes. Outside my tent door, resting beaten and muddy are two boots well past their prime (But don’t we have fun guys? Don’t we have fun?). Inside the right boot, a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet wine stands tall and chilled. It’s a small little home, not glorified with indoor plumbing or electricity or heat, but it’s mine, and this fact is perhaps its greatest feature and the most symbolic.
Allegheny is a place of Faulkner skies, on the verge of something dramatic, always, unexpected always, blue, blue skies exaggerated by yellow beech tree eyeliner, or grey to darker grey storm clouds with rain so thick the whole world looks blurry. This is how I’ve come to know Pennsylvania, rolling hills and unpredictable weather. Perhaps that’s just winter slide tackling fall. Regardless, we receive about as many rainy days as sunny ones which, to anyone who lives and works outside, translates to, we have more rainy days than our drowning morals know what to do with. We are camped off a forest service road on what used to be an old farm. However, it takes a whole lot of squinting and even more imagination to see this place as a farm. Beech trees have all but completely taken over and the hemlock forests on either side of the narrow strip of high grasses clench tightly and possessively at the edges. Sometimes I feel should the wind blow hard enough, the dark pines will topple right over this small open space, engulfing me entirely in wilderness.
There is something highly charged about this forest. It took me over a week to settle into the uneasy feeling that the “farm” gave me at night. It wasn’t bears or killer hawks I was afraid of, though, of course, these spooky creatures did linger menacingly in the back of my consciousness. What really gets to me, what really sends me into hallucinatory, catatonic still framed Dali inscribed fits, are my dreams. I don’t always remember my dreams, in fact, most mornings, it’s as if I had only been staring at dark all night long, nothing interesting to report, make my coffee, eat my cereal, press on with my day. But here, things are different. I awake every morning remembering what I dreamt and furthermore, I believe for a moment (and sometimes for entire days) that what was happening in my sleeping life was actually a part of my waking life. of course, I run this by my crew mates, asking if we discussed this or did that, and always they look at me with a blank stare, like I’m, well, crazy. Sure enough, these things have happened and these people in my subconscious are, in fact, real. (Perhaps that is why I’ve been so numb to my waking existence because my subconscious life seems more plausible, nay, more enticing and exciting. Perhaps this world, of money making, food eating and shelter having is only to support my sleeping habit which, this place has convinced me, might just be my awakening to my true life…). I tried to shrug off these strangely vivid and life-like dreams, but now that I’m well into four weeks, I have a sneaking suspicion that this place vibrates with an energy that is not exactly malicious, but is slightly dangerous. The other night I dreamt I re-injured my knee. There was a bloody hair tie to signify my wound. I was laughed at and left to seek treatment on my own. All my crew mates were there, but they seemed occupied by other things, meanwhile, I could barely walk. I tried to work anyway. I awoke shortly after, inspected my knee and found nothing besides the usual puffiness. I babied it for the rest of the day. I know, deep down, that one of these days, my luck on the trail will run out. I will slip and fall and it’s very likely that I will rip or tear or break something. I proceed cautiously, each downhill step, I focus on my quadriceps and hamstrings and IT band, “cradle that knee”, I say, “like the three wise men would cradle the baby Jesus”. And so I go about my days here in the forest, intensely focused on everything besides the work in front of me. Slogging through mud, I hone in on my muscles, calculate the days and live in the shards of dreams remembered from the previous night.
Work is work. That’s what I tell people who ask me how it’s going on the trail. It’s a job. I’m thankful I have one. It’s not very exciting, but that’s how it goes. I have been jabbing a pick into the rib cage of a forested slope for the last twenty five days. It’s monotonous and back breaking work, not to mention the trail that has been lined out for us, is, in my humble opinion, poorly designed. But what do I know? I just swings my pick and pull out dirt good mastah’, gets me some money, try to make a livin’. But my fantasy prone mind has perhaps gone too far. I’m no sharecropper, though, on the rainy days when it’s too cold and too wet to take breaks, when my pick is slipping under my soil soaked gloves and I’m drenched to the bone, I feel a sense of pseudo-slave labor. Of course, I smile at this thought, myself in tattered clothes, or even better, in black and white stripes chained to the guy next to me. If it’s not my life entirely, that’s okay, I just want to get close enough to feel it, just once, feel sodden existence, for a moment and know, most powerfully, that I can free myself at any moment. My mind is a keeper of many worlds, I go anywhere at anytime. Of course, this is dependent upon comfort. The pick slips again and gets lodged in the mud. It’s tough to extract, cold water drips down the back of my neck carving around the serpentine glaciers of my spine. Suddenly I’m me, again, cold, miserable, focusing on my muscles, one task only, remove the pick, then dig your way out of this dreaded crew.
Then the sun shines. How beautiful that radiant star! Ah, praise the woods I say! Praise the simple life! How fickle I am; an ant has more conviction. And so I oscillate between happiness and depression, my moods following the lumpy rise and fall of the Pennsylvania topography, at night I dream of scarily real situations, in the mornings I wake, completely asleep.
Standing on the horizon of the conclusion of this trip, I try not to reprimand myself for my gloomy outlook, I try to blame my disenchantment on the weather, on the work, on physical fatigue. But as I lay on my back, fighting spasms kicking like little demons in my lower lumbar, I think, what does it take to make me happy? Would I have rather not have done this crew? I can answer immediately, no, I am glad I stayed on with the crew. What then of the darkness, of the frustration, of the muddied metallic taste that lives in my mouth, that plates my face and provokes a false reflection of events? How has this come to be? I look at my hands, fat with muscle, but tired, lines creased deeply. Perhaps that’s just it. Perhaps, I’m starting to take on the weathered look of my body, my heart feeling like my boots. Sometimes I feel my sole wearing thin. I just want to rest, sit a while, maybe even stay…
(Summary/Time): So what has happened in my long absence? I have holed myself away in the dense woods of the Allegheny National Forest writing letters, digging, pondering my future, my patience, my presence. Most times I just shoot the breeze with the boys. I sleep atop three sleeping pads, one, my personal deflated pad which acts mostly as a moisture absorber, and two foam pads. The three pad system keeps me barely comfortable. I live alone, which is nice, since I have a very small tolerance for ruckus of any kind until I am sound asleep. My tent is simple and perfectly sized for me. I keep things neat, one has to, especially when the nomadic life is your specialty. The clan will not wait for the slow, rather they’ll leave you to the bears. Ah, but in reality (and facing the obvious lawsuit) they do wait, with the occasional grunts and puffs (blame it on fatigue we say, which is, in a way, true; we’re all tired of one another). And so everything has its place should a sudden wind of restlessness brush my face, my feet moving toward the distant hills before my head has had a chance to swallow the notion let alone process exactly what to “pack”. The layout of my tent is entirely functional, which is to say, I pay absolutely no attention to feng shui, that’s the privilege of the stationary soul. No, my humble abode reflects the practical to the highest degree. It’s glory and a majority of the space is dedicated to a warm slumber nest. An all-down, burnt orange sleeping bag lay in heat giving significance atop my three sleeping pads. I then cover the sleeping bag with another, lighter weight bag that I have on loan. A small fleece that I procured from the Goodwill, is balled up by my feet. Next to my shrine of sleepdom is my pack, resting on its back, head off, my clothes pulled out and stuffed back in like some twisted disemboweling, emboweling ritual. Above the pack and close to my head (and heart) is a small library, a lovely collection of books I brought from home, some that have been sent to me while here and of course, as any addict is expected to do, the ones I bought while in Pennsylvania. (I have no self control). I have even improvised a clothes line (if you can call it that, it’s more like a small slip of string) in my tent to dry out my ever soggy clothes. Outside my tent door, resting beaten and muddy are two boots well past their prime (But don’t we have fun guys? Don’t we have fun?). Inside the right boot, a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet wine stands tall and chilled. It’s a small little home, not glorified with indoor plumbing or electricity or heat, but it’s mine, and this fact is perhaps its greatest feature and the most symbolic.
Allegheny is a place of Faulkner skies, on the verge of something dramatic, always, unexpected always, blue, blue skies exaggerated by yellow beech tree eyeliner, or grey to darker grey storm clouds with rain so thick the whole world looks blurry. This is how I’ve come to know Pennsylvania, rolling hills and unpredictable weather. Perhaps that’s just winter slide tackling fall. Regardless, we receive about as many rainy days as sunny ones which, to anyone who lives and works outside, translates to, we have more rainy days than our drowning morals know what to do with. We are camped off a forest service road on what used to be an old farm. However, it takes a whole lot of squinting and even more imagination to see this place as a farm. Beech trees have all but completely taken over and the hemlock forests on either side of the narrow strip of high grasses clench tightly and possessively at the edges. Sometimes I feel should the wind blow hard enough, the dark pines will topple right over this small open space, engulfing me entirely in wilderness.
There is something highly charged about this forest. It took me over a week to settle into the uneasy feeling that the “farm” gave me at night. It wasn’t bears or killer hawks I was afraid of, though, of course, these spooky creatures did linger menacingly in the back of my consciousness. What really gets to me, what really sends me into hallucinatory, catatonic still framed Dali inscribed fits, are my dreams. I don’t always remember my dreams, in fact, most mornings, it’s as if I had only been staring at dark all night long, nothing interesting to report, make my coffee, eat my cereal, press on with my day. But here, things are different. I awake every morning remembering what I dreamt and furthermore, I believe for a moment (and sometimes for entire days) that what was happening in my sleeping life was actually a part of my waking life. of course, I run this by my crew mates, asking if we discussed this or did that, and always they look at me with a blank stare, like I’m, well, crazy. Sure enough, these things have happened and these people in my subconscious are, in fact, real. (Perhaps that is why I’ve been so numb to my waking existence because my subconscious life seems more plausible, nay, more enticing and exciting. Perhaps this world, of money making, food eating and shelter having is only to support my sleeping habit which, this place has convinced me, might just be my awakening to my true life…). I tried to shrug off these strangely vivid and life-like dreams, but now that I’m well into four weeks, I have a sneaking suspicion that this place vibrates with an energy that is not exactly malicious, but is slightly dangerous. The other night I dreamt I re-injured my knee. There was a bloody hair tie to signify my wound. I was laughed at and left to seek treatment on my own. All my crew mates were there, but they seemed occupied by other things, meanwhile, I could barely walk. I tried to work anyway. I awoke shortly after, inspected my knee and found nothing besides the usual puffiness. I babied it for the rest of the day. I know, deep down, that one of these days, my luck on the trail will run out. I will slip and fall and it’s very likely that I will rip or tear or break something. I proceed cautiously, each downhill step, I focus on my quadriceps and hamstrings and IT band, “cradle that knee”, I say, “like the three wise men would cradle the baby Jesus”. And so I go about my days here in the forest, intensely focused on everything besides the work in front of me. Slogging through mud, I hone in on my muscles, calculate the days and live in the shards of dreams remembered from the previous night.
Work is work. That’s what I tell people who ask me how it’s going on the trail. It’s a job. I’m thankful I have one. It’s not very exciting, but that’s how it goes. I have been jabbing a pick into the rib cage of a forested slope for the last twenty five days. It’s monotonous and back breaking work, not to mention the trail that has been lined out for us, is, in my humble opinion, poorly designed. But what do I know? I just swings my pick and pull out dirt good mastah’, gets me some money, try to make a livin’. But my fantasy prone mind has perhaps gone too far. I’m no sharecropper, though, on the rainy days when it’s too cold and too wet to take breaks, when my pick is slipping under my soil soaked gloves and I’m drenched to the bone, I feel a sense of pseudo-slave labor. Of course, I smile at this thought, myself in tattered clothes, or even better, in black and white stripes chained to the guy next to me. If it’s not my life entirely, that’s okay, I just want to get close enough to feel it, just once, feel sodden existence, for a moment and know, most powerfully, that I can free myself at any moment. My mind is a keeper of many worlds, I go anywhere at anytime. Of course, this is dependent upon comfort. The pick slips again and gets lodged in the mud. It’s tough to extract, cold water drips down the back of my neck carving around the serpentine glaciers of my spine. Suddenly I’m me, again, cold, miserable, focusing on my muscles, one task only, remove the pick, then dig your way out of this dreaded crew.
Then the sun shines. How beautiful that radiant star! Ah, praise the woods I say! Praise the simple life! How fickle I am; an ant has more conviction. And so I oscillate between happiness and depression, my moods following the lumpy rise and fall of the Pennsylvania topography, at night I dream of scarily real situations, in the mornings I wake, completely asleep.
Standing on the horizon of the conclusion of this trip, I try not to reprimand myself for my gloomy outlook, I try to blame my disenchantment on the weather, on the work, on physical fatigue. But as I lay on my back, fighting spasms kicking like little demons in my lower lumbar, I think, what does it take to make me happy? Would I have rather not have done this crew? I can answer immediately, no, I am glad I stayed on with the crew. What then of the darkness, of the frustration, of the muddied metallic taste that lives in my mouth, that plates my face and provokes a false reflection of events? How has this come to be? I look at my hands, fat with muscle, but tired, lines creased deeply. Perhaps that’s just it. Perhaps, I’m starting to take on the weathered look of my body, my heart feeling like my boots. Sometimes I feel my sole wearing thin. I just want to rest, sit a while, maybe even stay…
Saturday, October 2, 2010
haikus
two birch trees are one,
strangling or embracing,
what difference is one?
two birch trees are one,
twins, born of their mother tall,
scabbling siblings
two birch trees are one,
alone i sing solemn song
all's one, i am none
strangling or embracing,
what difference is one?
two birch trees are one,
twins, born of their mother tall,
scabbling siblings
two birch trees are one,
alone i sing solemn song
all's one, i am none
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
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
"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.
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.
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