If I have an adjustable hat and the notch it’s been set at no longer fits my head, what would I do? Some people just keep trying to make the thing fit, but it won’t. What do you do when a hat outgrows you?
What’s it called when you make excuses for failure and shine an extra bright light on the successes? These little mountain towns creep me out. It has everything to do with my having spent the first two dozen years of my life shackled behind the city gates. I come to places like the one I’m at now and realize that what I’ve seen in the movies isn’t all just hokey fiction. Oh, so people actually do put cattle skulls on their front fences. The closest store to where I am currently is about a half hour down the mountain, and at this particular store I could have purchased a hunting rifle (replete with requisite gear), fishing gear, groceries, a fresh-made hero, glass statues and figurines, and mailed a package to New York. I never realized how many sexual innuendos can be applied to fishing.
I woke at five this morning and wrote out on the porch while watching the sun rise through the trees and over the mountain. This evening, after driving a half hour down the mountain to a lake down in the rolling green valley, I watched the sun set back into the mountains and from their collision exploded a stunning spectrum of colors across the black water. The black sky is now ablaze with millions of radiating stars. Bugs are creeping and crawling all over my laptop screen, but I still see the bullshit.
Two evenings ago, in the middle of the woods, I was trying to explain why people are so afraid of me. Look in your heart and you’ll find out. This evening I was asked what type of writer I am, a poet or an essayist. Why do I have to brand myself as one or the other? To be a writer of poetry does not make you a poet. Is it strange when I tell people that, truly, what I’m interested in is the poetics of existence? Why should I not be? We are, after all, wrapped forever in its arms. (Oh, look, get it now?) This is the God I worship. The God of life. What? Who said June? The same who meditated and chanted with me in the sunrise.