One room cabin.

[mnaz]

The day deepens and folds. Curvacious sweeps reveal tucks and blemishes as the sun edges lower, seen from a one room prospector cabin-- its bleach gray remains. I spent time on a long playa below and its dead hills until I found this place. I figure to stay awhile, conduct a study on the effects of not doing-- though I smuggled in some bourbon, messed with the control parameters.

It's hard to gauge cessation of doing on a rock that spins continually; at best you'll get a pause, perhaps long enough to notice how west flows to east and back again on a slow, boundless arc fooled by its own gradual overreach. Book a south facing room in the Gold Strike casino at Jean, Nevada to get an idea of that long, long arc. Those deserts back east aren't nearly as relaxed in their crustal upthrust and sandstone walls and tucked in religions that pull me from corner to corner, physically nearer and visibly foreign-- precisely opposite of the boundless arc.

Meanwhile, science ponders if doing nothing might be a luxury. Or is it a sentence? Or even possible? Perhaps not strictly so, given the creeping rigors of sitting and breathing. If you watch for awhile, the givens turn a little darker and swirl inward and bust out in shades of witness. They hide and pop-- purple furrows still fluid in sun fade, never quite the same face. Someone lived here for years in a one room cabin about seven by ten, and I once thought it figurative of need over want, or the most elemental immediacy of passage, that is until I noticed the purple swirls.

[Lightning Rod]

mark,
you have enchanted me once again
this flows like honey
warm honey
(or bourbon)

[Arcadia]

(I)enjoyed reading!
tell us when you put them all together!!

[mnaz]

thank you, clay and arcadia. these things seem to find expresssion ever so slowly, which magnifies their power naturally, nearly invisibly.