At the back of the property the blackberry vines were advancing but the fruit was anemic and as I sampled it there was deer scat in the grass and fruit flies that made me feel uneasy. I went back once… Read More ›
Last night’s wood fire still broods, it hangs in the air. I am made older by it, my inability to relate. And the desire to retreat inwards, down a path with no exit and no room to turn around.
The night settled in and we filled the valley with our campfire smoke. It plumed out blue making the hillsides misty like we were somewhere far away in the bush, just me and Neil Young, his guitar and harp.
We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
So sadly defined by work, cut out like a bowl.
We are living this life where everyone we encounter is just a version of ourselves, the same as in dreams. How long have we been imagining shapes in the clouds? Or telling stories?