The journey ends, begins again

The tripping, driving, moving, long haul aspect of our adventure has come to an end. Every day a new place, every night a new temperature, every height a new name. We came across the desert in a white vehicle from the scrub of Los Angeles to the heights of Flagstaff.

There the sky is still mostly as bright as it used to be. Orion showed face, but not bow, not arms, not legs. Still, we were impressed with the change. A blast of cold mountain air we did not expect left us digging around that precious bass for jackets we did not leave out.

Prophetic words came unshelled from back in California.
We do not have winter clothes. What are we going to do?

In the mountains of autumn and Arkansas, this became even more real. A festival celebrating nothing, too early for this earthen ship to ride it out. The rain came to sweep it all away and let us know that we, for the most part, were wrong. But the precious bass in the back stayed tucked away and dry while the artists on stage got their more used, more loved versions soaking wet. A mandolinist could hardly keep it together. Who could blame them in that case?

We left in the bright dry morning after two nights of an hour, maybe two of sleeping huddled somewhere from all that wet mud. Drenched blankets in a plastic bag, one dry blanket in the back of a van. We had shoes on but they were swamps so we burnt them by the fire, instead. Now the laces are too short and my white hoodie’s brown. I guess that’s better as a symbol for the land.

We drove off with our white vehicle covered in small deaths, over and over, crushed and attracting the flies. Down the mountain, there was a city we tried to stay in – scared away by a problem we know we can’t face. In Lebanon, but nowhere near the Beirut, we tried again and failed worse than before.

“I can move you to a new room,” the line went at one in the morning.

We understand you must be tired, but we’ll take the loss and drive on through.
Night passing line a semi on a two-lane highway. Half scared and half impaired. Neither of us could keep the lines from blurring. You stopped in a gas station to sleep some but I couldn’t sit still. So, we moved on.

There was a cafe and some coffee. We ate breakfast, but did either of us taste it?
We warned our server to look for bugs in hotels, every time.
Never put your things on the bed or the floor. The eggs might come out with you, and then they’ll stay. You have to look for their shit and their skins. There’s this funny smell in the air. It’s sour, kind of bitter. If you smell it, you should run.

On to the place where our things will find rest. The precious bass slid out of that snug little spot it traveled the land in. No breaks. Out of tune and under-used, but like those bassists in the rain – I’ll learn to play that way. One day.

The rest of the place is a winter-work. We have our jobs cut out for us in little individual packets. There is this overwhelming sense when we look at all this autumn land – these city kids will never survive.

We might have been taught wrong in the past, but we’re going to stand or starve.
Through the wires and the lines, we’ve already found a place that might take us in, teach us, show us, make Earthens of us.

If nothing else, the wasps and the deer will.
And all the while, crows watching, staring, standing guard.

We’ll learn.

Onward anyway

Thoughts – coalescing, falling apart. One word before another forms a sentence, then you’re off to a pretty good start. But, erase that and never look back – and where will you be? Nowhere but back at the start. Rethink the old things and you’ve gotten nowhere at all.

Revision, revisit, revise. Redo and reuse and cycle back through.
One word, one thought, one string of babble that amounts to nothing at all.

Is this what the myths are made of? A hodge-podge of cobbled together garbage from our collective head?

So, someone thinks that I should read about base religion because it might lead me back.
Or it might lead me further down this road I came all on my own.

But never alone.
Always some saint, some mentor, some voice before mine echoing. Always some seer, some sayer, some teacher ready to correct and instruct me. Always some new angle, some new web some new spider has created for me to observe. Always some new piece of some old thing I thought I fully knew.

And yet, for all this, we go round and round the merry-go-round with these insults pasted to our faces like paper mash masks made of yesterday’s recycled news.

Are the images making sense?
Did they ever?

Hardly.

But we remake them and rework them and rehash them all the same.
I’m beginning to feel like I’m going insane, but it’s just the cultural schizophrenia setting in. No worries, we’ve got a pill, a liquid, a chewable tablet for that. 500 mg taken twice dailing, cut in half in a pill cutter from Wal-Mart that was made in China that you don’t exactly care for.

Better get the one made in some other various shape that you’ll hate for some other various reason and find no recourse to – but to buy another one.

This might be a fever rant. But, if it is – where is the fever?
Am I about to pass out.

I am not exactly feeling g–

One final flight

You are trying to tell me a story, and I think it has a purpose. But, the purpose is so lost and muddled and the connections only make sense some of the time. There is truth peppered in there like sand in carpet. Tiny little bits pressed down so far they’re so hard to find. But if you brush against them just right, you see them spring from the depths and jump in the air before your eyes. As if they were just waiting for you to find them.

I wonder what it must be like, knowing you don’t know. But caring so much. Wanting to know. Wishing you did.

I have forgotten plenty of things – things I’m not attached to, things I don’t care to recall. I wonder if all of a sudden, I felt like those were the key – the point – the goal. What would I do, now, if suddenly I wanted all those lost moments back? Would I sound insane? Would I cobble together pieces of what seem like reality and mix in something completely made up for flavor?

What story would I tell when I realised I only told the same one, over, over, over. Would I construct some fancy reality and pretend like I didn’t know? Would I even care if I did?

This is the strange road you’re on, and its getting more narrow every moment. With every new illusion, the reality cracks a little bit more. With every lie, the truth slips away from you. With each new deluge of anger comes a torrent of accusations that lead you in the same circles you’ve already gone.

You are a butterfly with wings outstretched, thinking as someone moves you that you fly. The street lamp is the moon on your back. And the jostle of their footsteps is the updrafts you’ve always caught in your flight.

When someone sets you down again, you forget them. Only the flight, that last moment, that one thing matters. All else is the blur you can’t wade through anymore,.

A life of things. Years and years, stacked on one another.
Who can possibly hold it all in?
Who can possibly understand?

The butterfly and you are tired.
It’s okay to go to sleep.
We kept watch.
It’s safe to sleep in the grass.

Goodnight.