After a bit of sickness

[This post happens after a whole lot of writing exercises, and some mention of not being able to keep food down. Also, mention of nearly zero visibility in the tower -- basically completely fogged in with clouds.]

I feel better, and still haven't eaten or drank. I took a fucking *walk*, that's all.

This whole month, inside the mind (tower) not having anything to see, no visibility (only because I was "above it all") is too easy an analogy. Like when K. [an older poet friend from the bay area, somewhat of a mentor] called out, derringer in hand, "give me a sign, that's all i ask, a sign to know you exist." God sends? A man, out of nowhere, carrying a sign, "Jesus loves you." The sufi's say" It's closer than your Jugular." And I believe them.

(I must find this woman Cynthia, the one whose eyes are blue, jaw square, and has lived the life of the mendicant)

I'm going to write a letter to my sister. Bye for now. Much love.

Surprise find on a hike

[This entry appears to have been worked a bit before it hit the journal. By the language (suddenly florid, then normal -- jerky) I think I may have been trying to bring it up to a "real" writing piece but hadn't finished]

July 23:

Walking down a rocky forest service road, mostly stream, anomaly caught the side of my eye. Down in the red cushion of fir needles and small ferns. Not believing the image, I walked back to the spot and confirmed -- a perfect sky-blue egg; fallen from some wind-thrashed limb above. It sat, cold, amongst the flat ground you find under conifers.

We stood around it, like the crowd at the manger, full of awe and indecision. We cruched, hugging our knees.

Too perfect this thing. A beautiful, unreal blue -- a little elliptical globe sitting like a king in the leaves, or a planet.

Not believing what I did, I watched as my hand reached across my gaze and picked it up -- as though it were made of blown gauze, and my pulse would be strong enough to crush it.

Heavy, like a stone. And so blue. A white & green smear of birdshit confirmed its terrestrial origin, relieving both of us, I'm sure. Like turquoise, it sat in my crisscrossed palm. It picked up my heat, cooling the center of my hand.

Its appearance had thrown us into Dream. It was too powerful -- our brains couldn't avoid mythology and hologram. We stood, transparent as thought, held by its powerful gravity.

Briefly, I thought I should take it back with me, pierce it -- blow it out & send it off to my grandfather, who has a penchant for these things. He would look it over carefully, through glasses & over pipestem -- wander to a shelf, pulling carefully a book. After he identified the species, making sure in his head it was correct for my bioregion & elevation and season, he would place it on a shelf, above his stereo, next to the tintypes of my great grandmothers, and and old-yellowed lamp globe. It would sit, dusty & pristine, amongst fossils and rocks, in my grandfather's house.

The weight in my hand, the smell of the trees, and the density of the wet earth under my bootsoles returned; and I decided to put it down.

My companion and I continued our cold, grey walk -- returing to find it, solid, on top of the gravel pile where I had hoped it would be easy to spot.

We returned it to its cold nest of wet needles, with a roof of fern boughs.

Later on, we returned and took pictures of it where it lay, and in each other's hand -- even that felt tenuously incorrect.

We laid it carefully back, wishing it to a roving skunk's teeth, or bobcat.

----- [to be continuted]

July 21st Writing Practice: Fishing Reverie, friend rememberance continued.

When I visited Robert this last spring (of my 22nd year) -- we of course went fishing. The water was bigger, and so were the fish. But it was still cheap, and we were still the best fishermen out there. In one month I'll be standing next to him as he gets married. Long hair, some bags under my eyes that weren't there before, and Robert standing next to me. it makes me cry -- just Life -- going. Changes & passages -- like all the poems about autumn you hear old people writing. I can feel a little autumn in my heart right now. It's real, like a flannel shirt -- and I'm getting older. I love you Robert. You've always been a brother to me. Good luck in your new life -- it's not much different. Do things cheap, and well. Have fun, learn, and pay attention. Like figuring out how to catch fish -- chance plays it's part, too.

****

I'm crying, I don't know why. I think it's because those times as a kid were so lonely. Robert was, in a way, all I had in the whole world then.

When we were fishing, I could forget about all my hurts. I could be scientist, an observer, a mountain-man -- the knowledgeable one. It was a way to touch the cycle of things, to enter into the biology of things. We stepped in clean & pure -- naieve of any blemishes to our soul. We *were* fishing -- no separation. Zen buddhists know what I'm talking about. No separation.

July ?, 1:21 AM -- frozen corn, horror films, lack of someone to woo, Dreads and plaster

Can't sleep. Got a bowl of frozen corn to munch on, and took a look at the moon through the windows. 5/8 full. My calendar is way the fuck off then, it shows 1/2 moon, waxing, on the 12th. The way its going, it'll be full in a day or two -- unless it was full a couple days ago.

Outside, it's got a pale, ghostly demeanor. The butte looks like a moor (again) -- once they'd have a poor, busy 1950's teen stumbling about in scared -- her ponytail all in a whirl. What a sadistic crowd we were (are). Wanna see kids chopped up for having sex. Every scene you see the soft-porn aspect of a teen slash-em-up movie -- you know the kids are doomed any second. The ultimate production of a crazed society formed on the protestant work ethic. "Fuck -- and you die, kids, -- gimme your money, thanks."

So I'm sittin here (on the Group W bench -- I mean I'm sittin here -- ), munching on frozen corn niblets, in the mood to write a corny love letter, but have no recipient in my life for such a letter.

Reminds me of the new, hippie chauvinistic I ran into a while back talking to some trail crew, or wildlife biologists -- "you aughta find yourself a kind little Betty to take up into that tower with you." "yeah, a Little Betty; you mean woman, right?" [lyrics] "where dehumanizing the victim makes things easier, it's like breathing with a respirator (Disposable Heroes of Hiphopracy)."

What was I saying? So, got no-one to write to. No one to woo.

I'll just read a chapter of Wild Mind & write instead.

****

Instead of that, I wrote G. Doten a letter, a writer who I met while working for an Irish stucco & plaster company in the bay area. He, a burgundy-haired, dreadlocked, Bostonian with a thick accent -- was their mudboy. Also their token drug-user. He writes shorts & scripts, etc. We should all be famous some day. He may be the first of my friends to rise up.

17th, PM journaling continued

["Russ" is a friend that I traveled for over 6 months with not long before this gig a the lookout. We lived on the street, jumped trains, and wrote together. He is the man who inspired me to start actually writing, helped me get over the initial intimidation. He was a walking anachronism, living in the wrong century. More on him later.]

Russ has replaced some father-figure -- authoritarian inside me. I'm reading nearly exactly what he'd suggest I read, what he reads. The psychology books aren't his kind of stuff, though and I do like the books he suggested.

I will be more aware of what I'm reading and why, and follow my personal path from now on.

The lantern driving the moths crazy, their flight pushing them against the glass of the window.