The sun shocks the forest today.
What looks like white flowers turn out to be hard rays of light slapping against the greenery.
Just dots of rays slicing through.
Strange yellows descend into the green haze. White Light.
Heat of the summer begins.
(The shaded stele.)
Someone wore a white sox.
Buzzing flies and humming bees.
Hiss and Hush
and you can creep right up and observe.
Who went here? I w/o/ander.
The visual heat of the light makes it easier to see a thing by the shadow it is
Balling out and into.
Shelter and cover.
Shade being thrown over you.
The cottonwood graces those spiderwebs which are so finely spun they are only indicated by the cottonwood snow.
Flight caught from above and below.
A containment of water.
A o O 0
A circle almost completed.
Ferns shade a shallow empoolment of liquid.
The evaporation will be affected.
Effect of dissipating one state of matter
A very tiny rabbit hole, unless you are tiny.
Light falling on water
Hidden in the corner.
Glassy separation not frozen.
To the edge.
These are the chambers.
There are levels.
Of a ladder.
Four out of five days a new mole surfaced only to fall asleep
It does not make sense, giggle.
As much as it does not make sense to…
…ask if the metric is true & the imperial system/s fake.
If the Cartesian (
Descartes had strange experiences with letters on a train) coordinates are true and the polar coordinate systems of geometry that are non-Cartesian are false.
One geometry can not be truer than another geometry.
It (one over the other) can only be more convenient.
There is nothing wrong with a bit of convenience.
Effie keeps a notepad @ her bedside w/ the intention of recording her dreams while they are still fresh. It was a challenge to remember about it when she first began. But, after nearly a decade, she did it involuntarily, it was a natural bodily function.
She had to remind herself just as much as she had to remind her heart to beat.
She records whatever seems relevant in that boundary dynamic of sleepfulness and waking.
she does it w/o intending to do it. Reading back thru what she wrote, it was as tough as though
it came from a stranger’s pen
is some other than her own pen.
Many times, recently, her notes were statements of facts; assertions of knowledge gleamed from some ungnown authority. At first, it was always descriptions of the dream itself.
Now, it was only the revelations reaped in the dreamscape.
The most recent revelation.
Effie is Emory. Emory was Effie. That was before Effie graduated high-school
and Emory went to college.
No rights, just homage.
Throw on your best pair of cans.
If your device gives you any grief, acknowledge and waive your right to not damage your ears.
Some sound walls are worth the resultant hearing damage.
The high wind shook and shimmied the foliage-heavy forest like a candle flickers the refraction of light on my white door.
Cotton(wood) splays itself across the path like nymphs waiting to be swept up in collection. Spattering of coral-esque moss. Sea foam green.
My spine becomes alit. Some exhalations come out like breath on a cold day.
The first few days of summer in the forest, we see as ampersand from below before we can see from above.
Death of the early summer days. Dead moleskin leathering in the sun. Pecked out banana slugs, the spoils of the war of the early birds.
Snakes sun mid-path, unconcerned with your intrusion.
Ten feet later this sun vanishes. Ten minutes, later on, it returns.
I cross eight and one half bridges. But, there are only five bridges.
Life begins as rabbits run into brambles. Fresh, with ears not fully grown.
Ducklings fatten on the now enshallowed Salmon Ladder pond.
I still espy you, sweet and lovely dummy.
Seated among the tall grass like a forested catacomb.
The first of the summer berries ripen.
The serpent’s red eyes open.
So now, gather round the children and elders, as I will tell a tale of once, way back when we all lived in the forest. I assure you the tale is nothing if not both authentic and novel. I readily admit the probable likelihood that you will dispute this axiom once I have told the tale. Saying you have heard it somewhere before.
“And there isn’t anything I can say to make you believe me. I can only state the facts as they are and hope you will believe me. Here goes….”
What conclusions have I, I will deduce for you now–
The situation persuading you that my tale is not novel and authentic, is itself my empirical evidence I assert supports my axioms of novelty and authenticity. For all we are is tales of once, way back when.
Put in different words, we are (the) story, our lives are the stories of the story. The story/ies allow us to experience being a person.
What it is “to live a life.”
Anthropologists study man and groups of men.
Anthropologists believe it necessary to define their object of study concisely and explicitly before any other work may be done.
Anthropologists say “humankind” instead of “mankind,” now.
Anthropological professors at universities all begin their first day lecture with a projected digital slide of Indiana Jones on the projector screen. And, they say, “Anthropology is not Indiana Jones.”
I throw up in my mouth a little. Who said it was?
A biology professor once told me that he studied what it meant to not not be alive. Highly instructive once I got over the voice yelling “h0wl pretentious.” Giggle, just because someone is paranoid, for example, does not mean they are incorrect in their assertion. A drug addict told me that a decade ago. I think he fixes cars now.
VVonderland Minor. 2009.
Audacious but also perspicacious.
You are specious?
Mavericks engage, enjoin, but remain unbranded unless approached.
Preempting pretensions of perhaps not.
Predating any prior existing periodicity,
Yet, í would still underwrite your risk again.
She keeps the tiny medal from your coat’s
Attached to original brown bag wrapping.
She sleeps by it every night.
The true meaning of í am almost always thinking of you
She had learned sleeping is tiresome.
Right side, fetal about the pillow to consider this
Left side to mediate the other side.
On my back when a moment is needed.
That it hurts a little.
That mystery of an unknown answer holds me fast and securely.
Could he and it too quicken?