To be honest, I don't understand my need to keep moving. I don't. I had a home, a good one for all my formative years. I'm not running from anything...I think. There are always visits. If I have the chance to return. If they still love me enough to accept the proposition. If they're not mad that I left. If they care as little as they did in the first place.
Here we are.
I leave on Monday to fly back home to chicago, get on a train the next morning for carbondale, then figure something out. There has been no rhythm to my sleep patterns since I bought that plane ticket. I go to bed worrying, I wake up worrying. Ok, maybe not worrying. Sometimes planning. Sometimes dreaming. Often lecturing to my "daughter", some lame manifestation of my past mistakes that I'm still having trouble laughing off. I wake up counseling friends I haven't spoken to in years. Defending myself. The yellow pine cabin is quiet at night. My head I never found a way to silence. Most of the time I don't have a reason to.
I'll miss the mountain sunflowers. I'll miss all the wildflowers. I'll miss the dead ponderosa pine they chopped down two days ago. I'll miss its silhouette on a 6pm sky as I rediscover the salty deliciousness of canned beans at Mark and Marcia's kitchen table. I'll miss the water falling over the large rock just under the suspension bridge and the way it sounded like ocean waves curling through the plastic slats of my RV's kitchen shade. I'll miss the way tetley tea with soy milk would get me out of bed in the morning. I'll miss those mornings I would get nauseous from drinking too much of it as I screwed around on the internet, listening to Morning Edition. I'll miss the crescendo of coyotes in the middle of the night, a battle of angry puppies. I'll miss laying on my left side to see the stars, my right side a midnight moon. I'll miss the aspen. I'll miss the strangeness of this country. The way the mountains seem enormous but so touchable. The way they look two dimensional against the sky, as if they were painted right on the set backdrop. The way one constantly compares them to the appalachians...as if putting their lover up against the one that they really love, have always loved, with the one they will never tell.
I'll miss wondering whats next until I'm missing what I just left.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Like Tasting Stars
I moved into a motel room today, an easy move in which no friends were called upon to borrow trucks or asked for manual labor in exchange for a box of cheap beer, but still a difficult one for a moment. I’ve been told to learn where your disciplines lie as early as you can or as early as you realize you’re immediately required to have them. Once you’ve found them, congratulate yourself with a healthy pat on the back. Where you have come up short on discovery, remove everything that is tempting to thwart what you hope to improve on. That is if you can find the discipline to do so.
What I dread most about this move are those new temptations…long hot showers, the satellite tv that looms in lonely late night sleeplessness, the 4ft mirror hanging on the wall which will mysteriously pass hours as a ego-fluffing conversation companion. However in sitting in this new place I am awarded the renewal of a new space, a new nest. Hang a picture, stack your books, sit on the bed.
There is something about living in a motel room that solidifies the writer lifestyle, perhaps simply because its not quite proper. I thought of Royal Tenenbaum at 100 N. 30th Avenue. Not a writer perhaps, but a fine manipulator of language and emotion.
I read more Ben Hart marketing master today as a step in a more disciplined reaction to my conversation yesterday with Mark. He came into the office at the house, full of energy, a change from the day before when he spent the majority of the afternoon sleeping and watching Cops, a true testimony to his fatigue. He offered a trip to the hot springs, an uplifting postscript to him telling me to move out of my beloved RV. The area surrounding the springs was beautiful – about an hour south of Salida on 285 and grazing the backdoor view of the Sangres with the Sand Dunes National Park some 8.5 thousand elevated feet of naturally degraded mountain rock in the desolate distance. Last March I had ran vigorously up their relentless peaks, sand giving way underneath my feet, challenging even the slightest dare to a summit. I remember telling travel mates that I had friends in Colorado as we made our trek, but never knowing exactly where they were. I had never imagined that they were just over the mountains. I had never imagined that I would be looking at them again with such a different perspective.
As we sat in what Mark referred to as “The Lobster Pot”, 108 degrees of mineral water salty with the soak of locals and tourists, we talked about business. I kept an eye on fellow bathers who assumedly came to the springs to escape exactly the conversation Mark kept to a hint above a whisper. I had no intentions to tell him kindly to can it. Looking out was more in habit of an often uncomfortable conscientiousness. But I didn’t mind so much as I have in the past with other personalities that have been “vaccinated with a phonograph needle.” It is because the man has a passion that can’t be sealed off. And in truth, I was rather enjoying the conversation. Mostly because he offered me a job and even more so because he was not opposed to letting me do this job as freelance back in Carbondale.
It’s like watching a mind circus, listening to Mark talk. Or similar to observing gymnasts or acrobats, or break-dancers, or something that doesn’t seem humanly possible but performs before your eyes nonetheless. It’s fascinating. Trying to absorb it on a content basis is not as fascinating, but still.
We went to Amica’s and sat at the bar to avoid the inevitable wait, a testimony which was greater realized when Mark calculated the weekly profit of the place on what he calls a “bar napkin business plan.” He shot low, about nine grand off at 50,000 bucks. We were sure because the numbers were verified by the General Manager, an overgrown boy with a big beard and flip flops, sitting two seats down from us at the bar, waiting to take home a sixer of Amica’s own amber brew.
Mark and I talked about Wasps and their seemingly self-absorption because they find the act of inquiring about another individual to be nosy. Mark explains that this was his father and the most likely place where he inherited it. As long as you’re self aware, I don’t really give a shit what your personality entails. To a degree.
The man with incredibly sweet sad eyes sitting next to us at the bar had just lost his job, so to boost his spirit, his wife sent him out to look for a second home instead of job searching all day. While Mark waited for his lost pizza to be remade, he and the man talked about business. I sat in between them, eating a panini, trying to not let large bites of spicy sausage fall out of my mouth.
What I dread most about this move are those new temptations…long hot showers, the satellite tv that looms in lonely late night sleeplessness, the 4ft mirror hanging on the wall which will mysteriously pass hours as a ego-fluffing conversation companion. However in sitting in this new place I am awarded the renewal of a new space, a new nest. Hang a picture, stack your books, sit on the bed.
There is something about living in a motel room that solidifies the writer lifestyle, perhaps simply because its not quite proper. I thought of Royal Tenenbaum at 100 N. 30th Avenue. Not a writer perhaps, but a fine manipulator of language and emotion.
I read more Ben Hart marketing master today as a step in a more disciplined reaction to my conversation yesterday with Mark. He came into the office at the house, full of energy, a change from the day before when he spent the majority of the afternoon sleeping and watching Cops, a true testimony to his fatigue. He offered a trip to the hot springs, an uplifting postscript to him telling me to move out of my beloved RV. The area surrounding the springs was beautiful – about an hour south of Salida on 285 and grazing the backdoor view of the Sangres with the Sand Dunes National Park some 8.5 thousand elevated feet of naturally degraded mountain rock in the desolate distance. Last March I had ran vigorously up their relentless peaks, sand giving way underneath my feet, challenging even the slightest dare to a summit. I remember telling travel mates that I had friends in Colorado as we made our trek, but never knowing exactly where they were. I had never imagined that they were just over the mountains. I had never imagined that I would be looking at them again with such a different perspective.
As we sat in what Mark referred to as “The Lobster Pot”, 108 degrees of mineral water salty with the soak of locals and tourists, we talked about business. I kept an eye on fellow bathers who assumedly came to the springs to escape exactly the conversation Mark kept to a hint above a whisper. I had no intentions to tell him kindly to can it. Looking out was more in habit of an often uncomfortable conscientiousness. But I didn’t mind so much as I have in the past with other personalities that have been “vaccinated with a phonograph needle.” It is because the man has a passion that can’t be sealed off. And in truth, I was rather enjoying the conversation. Mostly because he offered me a job and even more so because he was not opposed to letting me do this job as freelance back in Carbondale.
It’s like watching a mind circus, listening to Mark talk. Or similar to observing gymnasts or acrobats, or break-dancers, or something that doesn’t seem humanly possible but performs before your eyes nonetheless. It’s fascinating. Trying to absorb it on a content basis is not as fascinating, but still.
We went to Amica’s and sat at the bar to avoid the inevitable wait, a testimony which was greater realized when Mark calculated the weekly profit of the place on what he calls a “bar napkin business plan.” He shot low, about nine grand off at 50,000 bucks. We were sure because the numbers were verified by the General Manager, an overgrown boy with a big beard and flip flops, sitting two seats down from us at the bar, waiting to take home a sixer of Amica’s own amber brew.
Mark and I talked about Wasps and their seemingly self-absorption because they find the act of inquiring about another individual to be nosy. Mark explains that this was his father and the most likely place where he inherited it. As long as you’re self aware, I don’t really give a shit what your personality entails. To a degree.
The man with incredibly sweet sad eyes sitting next to us at the bar had just lost his job, so to boost his spirit, his wife sent him out to look for a second home instead of job searching all day. While Mark waited for his lost pizza to be remade, he and the man talked about business. I sat in between them, eating a panini, trying to not let large bites of spicy sausage fall out of my mouth.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Migration
Mal and I have spent the past two days together. Simply in the car. The first driving to Canyon City to run errands, today on a whim because no one, not a single person was here at Sweet. We took a bypass back route from Crested Butte, Gunnison 230 or something of the like, through the mountains, cascading pines and aspen. We stopped the car at one point, just past a turnoff slightly down the mountain with campfire rings to our left. She turned off the car. The echo of silence brought a buzzing to my ears. I hung my head out the window, looked up to try and spot the swarms of bugs overhead that she pointed out. The toothpicks of white aspen trunks, a wilderness of fantasy beauty like I haven’t seen in a long time. She called the silence absolute. It was true.
We saw “The Ruggeds”. An amazing spit of mountain in the distance. Close to the formations in Utah that I’ve seen in the past. Fingers pointed to the sky. Something majestic, something eerie. We named things. She named things – the wildflowers mostly. So many yellows and reds and purples on steep slopes pointing up towards blues better than most ocean waters. It was magic. My heart again, wishes to swell and explode with what I saw today.
I sit outside, after a day you wish would only close with perfection that would match. There is a moment when I am truly happy.
We arrived at Crested Butte – a small mountain town that exclaimates just over a hill on HW 50. Packed full of bustle and painted color on wood siding. Like that eclectic kitchen that trendy 20 somethings dream of. There’s a trifold of buildings, perfectly angled along the perspective of the highway, a school, middle school no doubt, with playing fields. Three young men form a square, one tosses a Frisbee to an older man with white hair who misses, bends down like an old man to retrieve it. Marcia says be careful who you call old around here. It’s a safety cliché I’ve heard a few times. She’s young. Amazingly, amazingly young.
We sit across from each other at dinner. A Chinese place with empty cafeteria fridge carts, usually seen in dorms to house salad bars. The waitress is sitting behind the sushi bar with salmon still in its warehouse package, watching TV in a language native to her own. We say we’re sitting outside, on my request – something I made a pact to do today. Have an opinion, make direction. After she brings the settings outside, we decide its too windy and carry everything back inside to a nook just off the entrance.I say I'm too fickle about atmosphere. Marcia then tells her to turn down the TV. She hopes without too much demand. She fears they might spit in her food. We haven’t ordered yet.
She wears her sunglasses at the table. I’m sitting on the side where all the light is pouring in through the pane lacking the colored glass on the top half to block the intensive glare. She asks later if its bothering me – her sunglasses. I say no. And its not. I just took notice is all.
I say I might have to go in everywhere to avoid dancing outside the stores. There’s a girl in the shop, short, brown belt on blue pants, t-shirt tucked in. She’s talking to the shop owner, so it appears. There’s a dialogue between her and the girl working behind the counter, the one that tells another woman browsing that she likes her shirt, it’s very “faded” in color. It is. I smile at the fact that this is why people live in Crested Butte.
Where in the east are you from? Says the girl with the belt.
Virginia.
They go on, narrowing down large geographic to small, based on navigational points. They come to some agreement, a common settle without real understanding. The girl with the belt explains that she came here for a class and never left. A wilderness EMT class. Shop owner selling her photos on the wall asks, “What do you do with that?”
I ask Marcia if she’s seen the Trilobite fossils. I know she’s listening.
The Thai place I talked to Kate about is indeed not closed. It may still not be that great, but its not closed. It’s just past that stretch of Salida road I know, then you merge off the right, heading toward Monarch Pass, the quiet ski town with cleverly designed ad signs. I ask Marcia why I brought the subject up, I honestly couldn’t remember.
John Denver wrote “Leaving on a Jet Plane”. We listened to it on the final stretch to Sweetwater. He also wrote that song about West Virginia (country roads take me home/to a place I belong) which I never really thought about being one place. Marcia said to call her out on being an old sap after listening to a few songs of Three Dog Night…(the world is black, the world is white) after she got on her soapbox. There’s no melody in music today, she said. I agreed, wondering in my head if there’s really any stock in age when making such an argument. But I wondered about melody. I wondered about melody. I wonder what we tap our feet to these days and wonder what foot we choose to tap to.
We saw “The Ruggeds”. An amazing spit of mountain in the distance. Close to the formations in Utah that I’ve seen in the past. Fingers pointed to the sky. Something majestic, something eerie. We named things. She named things – the wildflowers mostly. So many yellows and reds and purples on steep slopes pointing up towards blues better than most ocean waters. It was magic. My heart again, wishes to swell and explode with what I saw today.
I sit outside, after a day you wish would only close with perfection that would match. There is a moment when I am truly happy.
We arrived at Crested Butte – a small mountain town that exclaimates just over a hill on HW 50. Packed full of bustle and painted color on wood siding. Like that eclectic kitchen that trendy 20 somethings dream of. There’s a trifold of buildings, perfectly angled along the perspective of the highway, a school, middle school no doubt, with playing fields. Three young men form a square, one tosses a Frisbee to an older man with white hair who misses, bends down like an old man to retrieve it. Marcia says be careful who you call old around here. It’s a safety cliché I’ve heard a few times. She’s young. Amazingly, amazingly young.
We sit across from each other at dinner. A Chinese place with empty cafeteria fridge carts, usually seen in dorms to house salad bars. The waitress is sitting behind the sushi bar with salmon still in its warehouse package, watching TV in a language native to her own. We say we’re sitting outside, on my request – something I made a pact to do today. Have an opinion, make direction. After she brings the settings outside, we decide its too windy and carry everything back inside to a nook just off the entrance.I say I'm too fickle about atmosphere. Marcia then tells her to turn down the TV. She hopes without too much demand. She fears they might spit in her food. We haven’t ordered yet.
She wears her sunglasses at the table. I’m sitting on the side where all the light is pouring in through the pane lacking the colored glass on the top half to block the intensive glare. She asks later if its bothering me – her sunglasses. I say no. And its not. I just took notice is all.
I say I might have to go in everywhere to avoid dancing outside the stores. There’s a girl in the shop, short, brown belt on blue pants, t-shirt tucked in. She’s talking to the shop owner, so it appears. There’s a dialogue between her and the girl working behind the counter, the one that tells another woman browsing that she likes her shirt, it’s very “faded” in color. It is. I smile at the fact that this is why people live in Crested Butte.
Where in the east are you from? Says the girl with the belt.
Virginia.
They go on, narrowing down large geographic to small, based on navigational points. They come to some agreement, a common settle without real understanding. The girl with the belt explains that she came here for a class and never left. A wilderness EMT class. Shop owner selling her photos on the wall asks, “What do you do with that?”
I ask Marcia if she’s seen the Trilobite fossils. I know she’s listening.
The Thai place I talked to Kate about is indeed not closed. It may still not be that great, but its not closed. It’s just past that stretch of Salida road I know, then you merge off the right, heading toward Monarch Pass, the quiet ski town with cleverly designed ad signs. I ask Marcia why I brought the subject up, I honestly couldn’t remember.
John Denver wrote “Leaving on a Jet Plane”. We listened to it on the final stretch to Sweetwater. He also wrote that song about West Virginia (country roads take me home/to a place I belong) which I never really thought about being one place. Marcia said to call her out on being an old sap after listening to a few songs of Three Dog Night…(the world is black, the world is white) after she got on her soapbox. There’s no melody in music today, she said. I agreed, wondering in my head if there’s really any stock in age when making such an argument. But I wondered about melody. I wondered about melody. I wonder what we tap our feet to these days and wonder what foot we choose to tap to.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Over Seas
There's an Aussie on the premises.
The majority of our bang gang has started working at camp. It is titilating to see Sarah, a first time counselor as well as first time camper alive with its excitement. Yes, I got the note on the legal pad about sports and games. Here are the keys to the pontoon boat. Checks come on the 15th and the 30th of each month.
It's pretty sweet. It is. I'm not sure why those creeping demons of american engineering keep screaming in my peace. You will not be taken seriously. This cannot be a profession. Where's the money. The importance. The flaming suit and the tv interviews. Brynna said she would change the world. She understands we all say that. But she understands and is fully comfortable with the fact that her means of doing so come by "finger painting with retarded kids and making them happy".
The majority of our bang gang has started working at camp. It is titilating to see Sarah, a first time counselor as well as first time camper alive with its excitement. Yes, I got the note on the legal pad about sports and games. Here are the keys to the pontoon boat. Checks come on the 15th and the 30th of each month.
It's pretty sweet. It is. I'm not sure why those creeping demons of american engineering keep screaming in my peace. You will not be taken seriously. This cannot be a profession. Where's the money. The importance. The flaming suit and the tv interviews. Brynna said she would change the world. She understands we all say that. But she understands and is fully comfortable with the fact that her means of doing so come by "finger painting with retarded kids and making them happy".
Friday, May 23, 2008
looking it over
I'm supposed to write about what i've done each day. Thankfully, i've had a few less than i did last night, so perhaps details will abound and convoluted pieces of think will put their feet up for an hour or two.
There's a dog next to me. Candace's dogface, Diliah Dee. She's chocolate colored, with a few white spots in between her shoulders. Two black nails on her left paw, three on her right. I think her ears are clipped...like cat ears. Big amber eyes, and a pit snout, where all the hair is rubbed away to show brown freckles around her nose. Wide set jaw like Luke Wilson. She reminds me of a pig, but i can't say why. She rode with Kent and I out to Opie's Kitchen on little grassy lake where we climb. Her back legs on the blue blanket in the back seat, her face on the console in between us. She's quiet. Kent says that the more human behind the eyes, the smarter they are. I think that also goes to say a little something about some people i know.
We climbed a little. Told Kent that there are less trials of error when you're more of a cocky asshole. I traversed the far rock we found when we first came out there in two trials. Maybe being cocky presents you with the challenge of having to put your ass where your mouth is.
Green abounds since the last time I was out there. The forest floor is covered with heart shaped leaves, some organically shaped puzzle pieces, the compass plant that apparently sends its leaf points out in direction towards the four navigational points. I argued that North was indeed not the direction that Kent suggested earlier. I often stand against his opinions just for the sake of it. I don't argue, i just disagree without reasoning. Mostly because i have no clue of things so concrete.
We ate hefty sammiches at the base of the Rocky ledges waterfall across the road. Everything bread, LTOP (lettuce tomato onion) chicken, turkey, veggie cream cheese and a careful blend of ranch dressing and mustard so that the tartness of the mustard didn't take it all to itself. Diliah rolled around in something decaying and drank the stagnant water by our feet.
We walked the trail. Rocky ledges is, from what Kent tells me, the most sought out trail in Southern Illinois, due in large part to its dense and diverse wildflower population. I learned about a CCC project that started in the 30s which explained the dense softwood pine growth along the trail. We argued whether these regions were once underwater. Again, no sound reasoning. I just thought that once this was true.
Brian and Kathleen were having a surprise baby shower for Kathleen's second kid. When i arrived, people were sniffing at brown masses inside numbered diapers. Different brands of melted chocolate bars filled the bouquet. Guess what baby ate, get a prize. I don't know these people, barely know Kathleen and Brian, so its awkward standing there listening to B&K trying to guess each others answers to random questions (when did you find out K was preggers, where did you last have lunch together, what percent of the time does B clean the house) while their friends made bets on how many they would correctly match. Everyone undershot. Me, 14/20. I won.
It's nice to be around them hippie trendy young adults with kids. Keeping it real and not chasing tail or throwing up off the porch. I know nothing is different, we just take on different appendices...babies, houses, jobs, cars. We talk about how much they charged us for the garbage can at Bed Bath and Beyond or what wall color we just put up last month. But hell. Better that than a slurred blurb or the stammer of "fuckin..." interjected between every other word as we search for the next. I'm ready to get up early and get to bed the same. I dunno about babies, but I'm ready to pretend that adult thing. In moderation. You know what I mean.
As of now, I found some Boards of Canada, thought of Jodo. Ate some edomome drank some water. Tried to change my default password on my wireless because ACE1335 is stealing it, i swear. thought about going out for tomato juice. thought about what next.
There's a dog next to me. Candace's dogface, Diliah Dee. She's chocolate colored, with a few white spots in between her shoulders. Two black nails on her left paw, three on her right. I think her ears are clipped...like cat ears. Big amber eyes, and a pit snout, where all the hair is rubbed away to show brown freckles around her nose. Wide set jaw like Luke Wilson. She reminds me of a pig, but i can't say why. She rode with Kent and I out to Opie's Kitchen on little grassy lake where we climb. Her back legs on the blue blanket in the back seat, her face on the console in between us. She's quiet. Kent says that the more human behind the eyes, the smarter they are. I think that also goes to say a little something about some people i know.
We climbed a little. Told Kent that there are less trials of error when you're more of a cocky asshole. I traversed the far rock we found when we first came out there in two trials. Maybe being cocky presents you with the challenge of having to put your ass where your mouth is.
Green abounds since the last time I was out there. The forest floor is covered with heart shaped leaves, some organically shaped puzzle pieces, the compass plant that apparently sends its leaf points out in direction towards the four navigational points. I argued that North was indeed not the direction that Kent suggested earlier. I often stand against his opinions just for the sake of it. I don't argue, i just disagree without reasoning. Mostly because i have no clue of things so concrete.
We ate hefty sammiches at the base of the Rocky ledges waterfall across the road. Everything bread, LTOP (lettuce tomato onion) chicken, turkey, veggie cream cheese and a careful blend of ranch dressing and mustard so that the tartness of the mustard didn't take it all to itself. Diliah rolled around in something decaying and drank the stagnant water by our feet.
We walked the trail. Rocky ledges is, from what Kent tells me, the most sought out trail in Southern Illinois, due in large part to its dense and diverse wildflower population. I learned about a CCC project that started in the 30s which explained the dense softwood pine growth along the trail. We argued whether these regions were once underwater. Again, no sound reasoning. I just thought that once this was true.
Brian and Kathleen were having a surprise baby shower for Kathleen's second kid. When i arrived, people were sniffing at brown masses inside numbered diapers. Different brands of melted chocolate bars filled the bouquet. Guess what baby ate, get a prize. I don't know these people, barely know Kathleen and Brian, so its awkward standing there listening to B&K trying to guess each others answers to random questions (when did you find out K was preggers, where did you last have lunch together, what percent of the time does B clean the house) while their friends made bets on how many they would correctly match. Everyone undershot. Me, 14/20. I won.
It's nice to be around them hippie trendy young adults with kids. Keeping it real and not chasing tail or throwing up off the porch. I know nothing is different, we just take on different appendices...babies, houses, jobs, cars. We talk about how much they charged us for the garbage can at Bed Bath and Beyond or what wall color we just put up last month. But hell. Better that than a slurred blurb or the stammer of "fuckin..." interjected between every other word as we search for the next. I'm ready to get up early and get to bed the same. I dunno about babies, but I'm ready to pretend that adult thing. In moderation. You know what I mean.
As of now, I found some Boards of Canada, thought of Jodo. Ate some edomome drank some water. Tried to change my default password on my wireless because ACE1335 is stealing it, i swear. thought about going out for tomato juice. thought about what next.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
well there's that. we have that.
a wise woman told me i should keep a schedule. she told me a lot of things over the years, the same years that i've managed to keep thoughts secret and aloud on a page where everyone can read if they wish. he wondered what it meant that they could.
i forget without reminder that things were once easy. easier. why? because there were less thoughts. not so much of big life and big bills and big dreams we chase down paths we're brought up to realize as paths. i forget with learning, there comes a change of contrust. construct. i meant.
life presents itself in an metric shit ton of generic terms. i'm supposed to learn lessons, don't know when i'm learning them, what i'm supposed to make of them and forgive me jesus, never know when the day comes when action proclaims that i've learned from enough to pronounce something better to the alternative. so. what are we so worried about.
i remembered the outside today. i simply put some kids in a canoe or two. why do i struggle to defend the space it takes for a person to say hello, my name is. thank you for this.
hey, i'll do my best. it's good to be back.
i forget without reminder that things were once easy. easier. why? because there were less thoughts. not so much of big life and big bills and big dreams we chase down paths we're brought up to realize as paths. i forget with learning, there comes a change of contrust. construct. i meant.
life presents itself in an metric shit ton of generic terms. i'm supposed to learn lessons, don't know when i'm learning them, what i'm supposed to make of them and forgive me jesus, never know when the day comes when action proclaims that i've learned from enough to pronounce something better to the alternative. so. what are we so worried about.
i remembered the outside today. i simply put some kids in a canoe or two. why do i struggle to defend the space it takes for a person to say hello, my name is. thank you for this.
hey, i'll do my best. it's good to be back.
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