I dug through the wet leaves underneath the old cabin not quite clear on what I was looking for. A piece of myself lost in time, some old poetic treasure hidden from all the pillaging that has taken place here over the years? The volcano presides above us, the madrona follows its tangled path to the beach, its bark ever like lean flesh reddened in the abscent sun. The grey finds the shore in gentle wake. The rippling cry of a pair of eagle in a nuptial dance ressonates. Mountains water and trees. And what of the people....? No easy turn of phrase will suffice or find a simple ressonance. There is us, in our blue tinted van, carried through cut forests and endless cities toward what unanswered questions travel provokes. Why are they this way, how much of they is us, of us me? We play music when it rains. We read when our fingers and throats hurt and i tell stories of childhood to children in the hopes that past adventures conceal meaning.
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Entire forests are strewn like whalebones on beaches, where blue in the sky is as fine as silk to rainsoaked skin, where roads are immensly wide and straight and the rivers run with leaden fluidity chocked with murky refuse while the endless streams of trafic cross and turn and bend above them in intestinal serpentine confusion.
Can you understand home once you have left? Really gone away, as in, for decades without looking back, plunged in foreign being, as a being becoming foreign with every comming ostensible signs of incomprehension, to things like wild flagrant patriotism... How to navigate as a father, son, lover, man between the feelings of pushing away and familiarity... Here is a piece of the me I hate. Isn't it beautiful?