I like multiples. I am happy with the blues.
Deeper richer colors. The color scheme.
I could never have made this up, not in a million years.

“By thus returning to the taken-for-granted realm of subjective experience, not to explain it but simply to pay attention to its rhythms and textures, not to capture or control it but simply to become familiar with its diverse modes of appearance–and ultimately to give voice to its enigmatic and ever-shifting patterns–phenomenology would articulate the ground of the other sciences.”

David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous, p 35

Long slow time on the lake
striking the tent and the tarp
washing all the dishes in lake water
hanging the prayer flags to dry
laid to dry on the warm gravel beach
swimming in lake water
the sandy floor latticed with sunshine
cold on my body
but loving as water can be

loading the canoe full with gear
towing it back to the camp
his hand on the skin of my back
just touching as face touches sun
as loving as touching can be

the intricate tree line ahead
the intricate cloudscape beyond
burnished brilliance of ripples a path
a path to the Island of Eden
woods glowing with platinum light
yet warmer than that in the sun
pulling into the dock
unloading the gear

lost eternity of loons
and star geometry

but without a wish
no need for a wish

It’s Content that’s Difficult.

A coating of disappointment like sunscreen.

Somebody may die – someone’s going to die – someone in this very family

I’ve always felt like a doomsayer

I feel Norwegian this morning

Hopeless about the possibility of food

I looked for coffee, but I couldn’t find it

8/14/04

Challenging rain. My throat ached yesterday morning; today it’s my heart. I love the woods for their unstudied expression. And – no need to keep them clean. I won’t write about memory, or awareness, or issues, or interpretations. I have even lost my way to details.

The sun is lightening this paper, although the sun basks behind thick banks of cloud. The intrusion of forms and color disoriented me for days. The sense of privacy, the feeling I need to be ALONE, that interruption would be a disaster – I can rest in 3rd bed as a whole group of people who are tuned in to the mysterious.

I hear my mother’s voice when I write. Like Virginia Woolf’s “angel.” Approval/disapproval and/or their opposites, doesn’t it matter? It’s a sort of gel that infiltrates and coats, substanceless, colorless, odorless. How long can I keep it up?