Getting out in the rain after too many days cooped up, no date

Think I'm gonna dress up & take a walk. I've huddled in this propane-warm cabin too long -- I'm going outside for a walk. Got 2 hours before the next check-in. I'll take my radio just in case. I wanna get wet and cold, come in & watch the steam rising from my drying wool pants, and enjoy myself.

And this time I remembered to close windows to keep out brave, fat chipmunks.

****

Man -- I feel GREAT! just took a walk down about a mile or so to see what I could see. I feel so much better now.

On the path/road not 1/2 mile from here I found carnivore shit. Looked too big for coyote. Maybe Cat? I pray -- it's not far if it is.

Further down, after doing a second radio check to make sure I was still in contact w/ Mt. Hood Dispatch, I walked down the 400 Rd. I made about 1/2 mile -- no grouse by the way -- and it started to drizzle. I headed back, joyous as ever. I was just dripping with joy. When I turned around, the road looked completely different. Now uphill, now curving to the *right* -- so I didn't put my slingshot away -- who could tell if there were any grouse on *this* road or not?

On the way down -- I'd found some lichen that was in the road, blown off a tree. It was so seaworthy -- shaped just like some sea lettuce I've seen. My mind raced -- sea -- up here -- evolution.

I walked back, and it started to rain seriously, and I smiled at the change. I forgot all about the electronics in my backpack -- didn't worry about them at least.

I came to a boulder overhanging a ledge, headed Southwest -- into the wind. I walked out & stood, arms to the side -- huge smile. I felt *so* good, it felt so good to have the wind strong against me, reminded me of the times when I've felt the sentience of the wind -- when I related to it as a spirit. I walked back -- happy.

[to be continued]

Prose poem description of the cabin etc. (no date)

Here I sit, quivering with Poems. Rexroth's "Signature of all Things."

I put down the book, some of Snyder's
poems have quieted me.
I look slowly around the sky cabin,
not expecting.
Olive-yellow trunk box (full of wire & cable, I know),
A couple of old wood chairs on either side of the
glass-paneled door --
Socks on one, towel on the other,
drying.
The spotting scope -- black, matte black.
The podium holding Osborne Firefinder atop,
A photo of cattails in a pond,
A painting of a medicine man,
A face of a hawk -- both images cards
Received from male relatives
In the post this summer.

A 5-gallon, square, opaquish water jug,
1/5th full,
Kettle (aluminum) and flowered enameled pot,
Bean stains varnishing the outside where it boiled over.

An aching back or a turned-in butt on 2 pillows.

Dripping rain and wind outside,
Catwalk dark with wet.

Wind sounds like a tundral howl,
"Howa, Howa -- Whoooooo ---" whistles off.

An eagle feather,
Speckled white fading into brown --
A little but of white down,
Hanging from an eye-screw placed
Perfectly
In the middle of the ceiling.
Olive-yellow tongue-in-groove ceiling.

2 light bulbs I can't afford the electricity to use,
A 2-way radio on the desk,
And this penned hand,
Writing.

Torrid Zone

Torrid zone -- between Tropic of Cancer 23 degrees 27 minutes North of equator and Capricorn 23 degrees 27 minutes South of equator.

Torrid, A. [L. torridus, from torrere, to roast.] 1. Dried by or subjected to intense heat, especially of the sun; scorched; parched; arid. 2. So hot as to be parching or opressive; scorching. 3. Highly passionate, adent, zealous, etc.

Torrid zone; are of the earth between the tropic of Cancer & the Tropic of Capricorn & divided by the equator.

Websters new unabridged.

Adrienne Rich quote

"...Clara, I feel so full
of work, the life I see ahead, and love
for you, who of all people
however badly I say this
will hear all I say and cannot say."

ending of "Paula Becker to Clara Westhoff"
in Adrienne Rich's Dream of a Common Language, p. 44

Tired of writing, and a favorite line, unknown date

She [Natalie Goldberg, have been doing writing practices out of Wild Mind book] wants me to write about my home now. I don't want to, I've written enough tonight. The only line I like is;

The sunlight was all dusty, and the air smelled like a cold, rusted muffler.

so there.

Writing Practice, different subject every sentence. Unknown date.

White tigers have always astounded me, but look so plain in zoos. I prefer the orange ones.

Birds are cool, but blue I like better.

Alligators -- bah these are all animals, I have to stop this cycle.

Space ships are large and have blinking lights.

Dew on the grass in the morning lights up like little frosted crystal globes.

The wind here sounds like it's pushing up against a shelter made of plywood & corrugated tin, and makes me think that I'm in a poor Mexican town, hoping for my life that I won't freeze tonight.

A black spider with a yellow zig-zag on its belly hanging on a web, thick & frosty white.

Topics, topics -- they don't have to be nouns, you know -- they don't have to be verbs, or adjectives -- they can be feelings -- under images; and the longer you pull the sentence out the longer you have before the next one.

I see a bridge, with sunlight dappling the surface of the shallow greenish water below. There are steelhead under there, or coho salmon, and it's the mouth of Eagle Creek on the Clackamas.

Mermaid mistresses give juicy, dangerous love.

An arsenic lobster (stolen from Lorca) falls on my head, and I'm black (stolen from Jimenez or Machado) with a diamond inside.

Mowing the lawns of cemeteries -- the hills covered with mist & trees & the mausoleums are on top of the hill to the left.

Spirit folk went through my dreams, always clad as Indians dancing, carrying their loved ones' images, up on stilts with feathers & dead, in their hearts as they travel.

I love: the earth, frogs, women, butts, women with frog butts -- that's K. actually -- and thinking, and being ungrounded, and accepting, and love.

God is: God is a leaf in a stream -- one more try.

God is an autumn leaf under a thin sheet of near-freezing water, washing down a clear Northeastern stream.

God is Heroin, to some I'm sure.

I don't know how much time I've got left so I'll write until 21:00 hrs. -- that's 3 minutes left. My hand hurts, and I feel like I'm writing a bunch of crap, but the school of disembodied poetics keeps coming up, and that's exciting me, because I think maybe it's a sign from the Universe that I should go to School, and I can just see it now, my old bus & T. & maybe fly fishing in the summers, and my arm is burning up, and I don't want to slow down or stop writing or stop breathing, because I've only got a little of it left but my arm is burning off, and I keep holding my breath, and this is all a bunch of crap anyhow. And I sure wanted to end on that last line but a minute lasts a long time when you're in pain.

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.