There I see them again slowly slipping away. It is important at moments like these to grab Nikons and go pros and pieces of paper or anything you got and take it all in, savor it. Post it, write about it, and send it to your mom’s and dad’s and children.
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What my father wrote about was pretty real. It was a pen and paper on a boat with a flickering kerosene light, or a cabin on Stuart against firewood and stars that we can no longer see.
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He was always away, away, away. And could escape and come back as he chose. A mad hermit, a trivial pursuit night genius at the ale house. Imagine how much he appreciated you after he was away for so long. Out at sea, over at Stuart. You probably felt good in your daily grind
I sometimes I want to be there, there, there. In the face of it all.
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We imagine it all like circles or bubbles that are just sort of floating around and they do that weird thing where they touch and become a weird Mr. Potato head bubble, a bee, and insect sort of thing. You want to strike out with a tennis racket and make correct it. Make them circles again! We say.
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These planes are getting the best of me, it is like I am getting so far away, over into New Mexico on the only trail that Pat Garret knows, “can we deviate?” I ask. But it is all the same, horse or train, or car, or plane.
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We move thousands of miles to never become who we are. We move thousands of miles to become who we could be.
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We have no idea what it is like to look at our kids. Tomorrow modern boxes and try to invent a new, the pressure is on…
All we can say is lay down on the forest floor and try and watch the leaves fall
all we can say is stand around a fire and watch the flames grow
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