Monthly Archives: September 2013

In words, onwards.

I walk a tortuous trail past nettle and knot-weed. My feet knocking heavy on the boardwalk, sloshing steady through the agua estancada. Here along the lakeside, I lay witness to circumvolutions of infinitesimal waves riding out from their origin: marbles meeting mirrors. Crystalline droplets stream off of my hydrophobic core and soak into the skin which covers my femur, patella, tibia, fibula… From the black hills, atmospheric water catches on the aromatic exhalations of evergreens and other forest foliage. The mist mingles with the tips and boughs of trees, and rolls into the valley.

This place is my place, the forest in which I have weathered thunderstorms flashing purple static curled up in close quarters with tiny white feathers shed by a thousand geese, and the smoke, spice, and bite of another blazing soul.

Contemplate transient as a curse-word again. No. Contemplate transient as a gift – the logic of drifting clouds and shifting weather patterns. The need to migrate for survival.

And the sun, streaming down through the canopy. This forest where I have gone careening down the trails and rolling in the dirt. The land where I have laid back in a mossy mat and watched sun shining through the vasculature of big leaf maple, this place where I have snapped off and sucked on the sweet root of Polypodium glycyrrhiza.

This is the home of the double rainbow and sun showers.

And these interstates, the coursing veins of small highways, routes and knowledge of their place in the system of things, carry me on to so many other spaces which I am a part of. The freezing desert nights, flickering candles and cellulosic matter of dead trees combusting. Gazing at spirals of galaxies, pondering constellations and the photons which tell us they were once there too.

Talks and encounters with all of those elders who are most rooted, the ones who understand that those with legs must wander.

The time before I venture outward from this – city – where “transient” is a curse word is counting downwards.


I had a dream last night that I purchased a new guitar with some three hundred dollars cash. I did not need to play it before buying it, I already knew that this was my instrument. It was a lot like the little martin that I own, but with a brighter sound. When I left the shop, the proprietor drilled his employees on who just made such a quick purchase like that, usually a person shopping for a guitar spends hours filling the space with useless sounds.  He had to track me down – invited me to chat of many things.

Somewhere, finally, when I had second thoughts, I wrapped my fingers around the neck, and began to play Hotel California. This sound was perfection, I’ve never played the song in real life.

On the radio last night, I heard a quote of Les Paul stating, “People hear with their eyes.”

Why I…

Because there is a force in me that won’t stop. Because it is uncompromising and fierce like a hail storm with pronged lightening rolling over the plains of Montana. Because, even if I stand in the shadow of all which I am self conscious and ashamed of, extinguishing the flame that illuminates this will not cause what has cast the shadow to disappear.

I am not a noble person who has plugged away tirelessly at their cause. So I have been discontent with and still remained ignorant in how to twist all that is wicked in this world onto it’s knees. And this story I am living is one of having eyes pried open slowly in one off kilter way after another. Always observing, and taking note quietly…biding my time and waiting.

Images that my mind can only comprehend as kaleidoscope slowly and methodically begin to form one clarion message. That one message is really a series of many messages, from many sources feeding into what my input/output can help with. And it is knowing this that I wait for that one place in the symphony that my pitch and frequency are  absolutely and perfectly logical and necessary to filling out the overarching melody. The avalanche of tone.

The cataclysm that is the beating heart, that which is sanguine flowing.