It’s wonderful to be all alone in a big house. Dancing to Wax Tailor while I make tea, (we ran out of propane so I have to use a clunky little campstove to heat the water). Sitting under a lamp to read Mark Helprin and sip mint and Assam. My cup is big enough to fit a baby’s head inside. Hip-hop samples stop and go, and at first I think its the song but out here streaming is a silly attempt.
I swear ticking clocks were invented to accentuate solitude. Electricity courses through wire veins to nurture our friendly machines.
Now it’s mostly silence, every minute or two another 5 seconds of the song buffers then cuts off.
I turn on Viscera - dissonant and painfully beautiful - digest the magician’s words.
Waking to write, and watch Jack Frost work his winter touch.
In Nature we see there is no story, that every legend, fable, myth is desperate.
Sometimes I wake up hopeful in the morning.
My people call...
Flashcards. New schema for new territory.
After the musk and scent of sweat and desperate breath...
Somedays you either laugh or cry unintentionally.
The lull of Salish swaying below me.
I live in a beautiful little corner on the blue planet.