“If she only knew about me: been on the mountains I’ve climbed, read the stories I’ve written, heard the music I composed, seen the shows I’ve played, experienced the parties/ritual happenings I’ve hosted, felt the rocks I’ve carried, watched the space I’ve bent, explored the dreams I’ve dreamt, spoke with the animals I’ve befriended… If she only knew. ”
but she doesn’t and she probably doesn’t care to at all.
Are persons ever “called” and they do not respond? I mean quite literally. The message is sent – and they ignore the magical invitation.
These are the unglamorous moments left out from the histories of the secret societies.
Autumn is finally upon us. Rains; lightning even
It seems like such a distance and trial to get away and into quiet, into the ‘primitive’ and natural world. But it is not far. Forest and mountains without people or reception are very close. Even still, that can feel like part of our “busy, busy”, and not a place ‘away’. I suffer from objectives (agendas) – maybe, or perhaps just those time restrictions, and that there is something pressing to return to. Maybe ‘away’ is much much closer.
Turn off the phone.
Did she come out to smoke to make eyes with you?
Did she look at you from across dark bar rooms or open cafe courts for want and affection or because you had been looking her way yourself only for forgotten endless hours and with piercing persistence?
Did she touch you with roses and stare into your eyes the same as every other boy in the room?
When she sat 3 seats over you thought to offer an open palm and half out stretched arm, that she might do the same, then you’d be holding hands while the guitar screamed so loud.
We are a fraction of our ancestors – only a bit more than their division by way of starlight and dust. This explains our weakness in all manners physical, emotional, spiritual – maybe not spiritual entirely. Could it be like homeopathy? Dilute the thing again and again and it becomes something more potent, in a way? But the clutching at intellectual growth is an ego’s excusing – for magicians once changed forms by way of mirroring and sacrifice and now we clutch dearly to comforts and inmaterial material. Glen Dawson is proof enough, and your grandmother or father. Then there’s that young shit with motorcycle and tattoos: a fraud compared. Even me, not in the mountains, not writing countless novels, not with the woman I love. Infatuated instead with girls I’ll never speak to, at a loss for magic, drunk at a cowards – crowded bar speaking to no one. It is as is. Words of little consequence – less than more of curving q’s and twisting turns. Make the thing dear beast. Maybe with a jackal – some lord of death, I might face the dark thing that holds the last vestiges of fear over me – 30 years now counting.
I’m up as late as late and as early as early – after stars are crisp and before the dark blue is over took by gold and good.
Caffeine steeped in boiling water to start the thing; some firery brown to put me down; an ungodly plastic bull to keep me up and “right”, though I’d prefer a nap with a pretty girl – save that I’d go stir crazy, upset by my lack of progress in other things.
Today it is grey and spitting a bit. The chain cafe is littered with those who typically wander the streets – their first watering hole.
She wrote me a good note. I had a perfect moment with another in my sleep.
I am leaving tomorrow.
Did she come out to smoke? An excuse to make eyes with you?
Did she look at you from across dark bar room or sun bleached cafe courts for want and affection or because you had been starring – for forgotten endless hours with piercing –
Did she touch you with roses and stare into your eyes the same as every other boy and girl in the room? Fog from the machine thwarted its mood by a highly functioning HVAC system.
When she sat 3 seats from you, you thought to offer an open hand and half out-stretched arm, that she might do the same, in slower increments, after hours you two holding hands in the blind darkness (or blinding sun), comforting touch then sweaty palms while the guitar screamed so very loud.
If woven toes were felted
meandering, raging, pooling, falling along easy paths or smoothing rough edges – a small channel in valleys feeding trees and birds and goats and mice
– for life and cold places. But algae and worms and cacophonous seracs falling like small mountains themselves or tremendous timbers.
and in winter, entire frosts cut away by frozen falling
The indescribable absence. Reluctance, called “patience”. Inaction, called “watching”, “sitting”. Without, called “discipline” or “growth”.
Bottled up, becoming fodder. Thinking it might become strength, wondering if it is decaying and weakening.
Living as half myself on the hunch that I transcends “myself”.
Night blooming flowers, budding then blooming under starry and moonlit skies.
Long fragrant ghosty petals, translucent white wings with reaching tongues exhaling the most fragrant sighs. This captivating perfume.
Night Blooming: saved, once per year; moonflower; hallucinagines
Woody Bushes: forsythia, ugly scrub scrap save it’s week of explosive sun gold
Desert Blossoms: after rain; the awakening desert; the dreamy lavender and the release of fresh air
Relentless Flowers: through frost and long winters; those that prefer a beating – you wisteria!
Bolting flowers: from sudden heat; leafy greens