Days like today where I wake up and my astral eyes are not tired, I go outside. I spent most of my summer this year drowning in blankets, sleeping away what days I was not at work. The heat hurt my heart for it reminded me, every day of the summer I was happy. You know, though, I've been happier than that one, and I know I will again so I regret laying in bed when I could have realized that happiness is not a memory just as much as it is not a destination. It's not a cardinal direction, a left then right with an ending. I don't know what happiness is, honestly. I still spend a lot of my time sleeping, pretending to know what's going on and it bothers me. Deeply. Someday I expect my life to fall into place because I was taught that it will with time, but the strides that build the pathway there are all still shaky and I wonder if I can live a life without crutches someday or if I will still be using stilts to convince the world I'm okay. I have it under control. Today was one of those days where I breathed in air that smelled like my 14th year and normally the memories would surge into my veins and I would go insane trying to rewatch clips in my brain from the times I was laughing, in love. I am not watching my life through rose colored lenses anymore, though. I'm living it through green doors. I miss the conquest. I miss the adventure, control. I used to wake up early just to watch the sunrise and now I'm lucky if I see a sunset. All it took was an extra push and suddenly, for 6 months at least, I was someone else. I was floating in time and I could dictacte every feeling I experienced because I fucking tried to. I just need a redo. Today was that. I will try. I always forget that it was not one big mess with a beautiful ending that created the universe, but instead one big bang with millions of years of evolution, that which still included decay- to build what I stand on now. The Earth was not built in a day, nor was I the summer I'm convinced I was my happiest. So I know that it's one step at a time. And I'm ready.
Early morning, still asleep, but awake. Driving.
Trail head, moving, but still asleep. Starting.
Early blues, dirt and cold, move. Hiking.
Sunrise, waking up, seeing green. Accepting.
Light and day, a smile, and examination. Upwards.
Afternoon, some food, energized. Suspense.
Another start, a drink, you see it. Anticipation.
Final push, sun overhead, sweat. Breaking.
A moment, you're there, the peak. Relief.
A pause, a rest, the magic. Beauty.
Postpone, delay, but down again. Exhaustion.
Aching, sore, but worth it. Descent.
Time, darkness, back again. Driving.
Ahead -- another mountain, tall, for tomorrow. Sleep.
a little rich
in free fall
not yet slippery
with the being
over and on
a green silken
The smell of inspiration
The desire to keep your pace
The rain in your hair
Coloured in rocks
You in your natural habitat
Walls of canyon stone
The rush of the waterfalls
The pain of the drop
As every senseless breath is gone
You can feel yourself drown
In the beauty of nothingness
In silence and peace
On this loud earth
Where the water falls
there was a young leopard
that morning in the sun
on hearing our joyous footfalls
it hailed out, "Having fun?!"
alas, not knowing, poor thing,
we didn't follow jungle tongue
and off we ran in such haste
as a question kept hovering:
was not seen, circumstantial evidence suggests that we had a narrow escape.
Upon a windswept peak,
I lay my weary head.
Fatigue sets in,
My heart fills with dread
If my tired eyes
give way to treacherous sleep,
I may just give the
all knowing God my soul to keep.
As I slip away begin to speak,
"Curse you lord, for letting me die
on this miserable windswept peak"
Although I try to fight them
Thoughts of his invasion
And of how he was so fucking brazen
Keep hijacked my mind
I know what I'll find
I don't want to look
I dont want to open that book
I don't want the memories
It just fosters my disease
He destroyed my sacred place
He knew that was my space
So cool and calculating
So patiently waiting
Knew when to strike
Out in the woods he'd make me hike
Fucking stop I scream to myself, just stop
Put those damn memories on the chopping block
Bury them down deep, and hide them
Or your sanity is gonna be looking grim
Think of happier things like butterflies, birds, and bees
Maybe it'll be easier than it seems
But my birds turn to buzzards
My bees die cuz my butterflies are bad ass motherfuckers
I'm tired of reaping another's bad actions
This kinda shit just shouldn't happen
But it does all the time
And cops don't give a fuck about this kinda crime
So what am I to do
I feel like throwing in the towel, I'm trough
I'm tired of waiting for happier times
Of trying to patch together a life that doesn't rhyme
i, a textilian*,
politely clambered up the faces of mountains
as the valley revealed herself to me
her ready desert face, waiting
to be devoured by ravenous, wandering eyes
the nape of her neck, her chest, her thighs,
slowly~ and all at once
but i, the textilian, drowsily slipped under soft shade
it was only a brook but, it felt like a wave
and the deep creek carries me away,
then brings me back, to this sacred place....
it is nice to wake up to the sun
in your face
until slowly, and all at once, i was awake
and my clothes were on the ground
letting sweet redemption crawl back into my pores
beneath that sky, between those rocks
giving my self away
no mystery, just us three
hence i, the ex-textilian,
like a newly-molted reptilian
more like an undressed chameleon
in all my ecstatic toughness and alcoholic delirium
have learned more about what it is to be naked
than i've known since i was born
slowly~ and all once
2. scale a cliff
3. go get naked
*textilian: term coined off of Richard, a 64 year old LA biz retiree, desert dweller, and nudist ~ this is what he called us when we arrived at the Springs wearing clothes.
adventure is good for the soul.
I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.
Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.
If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.
When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.