Mushrooms Trip in Elk, CA 08/21/21

There are
Three parts
Of OM

AHHHH
—Open mouth wide
Release fully
All breath

OHHHH
—Narrows lips
As if to whistle
Focus sound
Drop pitch

MMMMM
—Close lips
Smiling, similar
To satisfaction
After eating

Then silence
Before repeating

>>>

My back starts hurting, usually, when I am seated or standing for a long period.

Why am I seated or standing for a long period? To work.

Why am I heeding the call to work and ignoring the pain in my back?

>>>

Self-conscious

I do
Or say something

As I would
Alone

Without realizing
I am not

>>>

A handle pokes out from under the blanket draped over the daybed. I put the pan beneath the bed before I went to sleep last night, in case of an intruder.

Usually, I write well when I take mushrooms, or at least more creatively. I lie here, on pillows on the floor, having taken them once more, waiting for something to write about.

When I take mushrooms, I sit, lie, lounge, walk in circles, but mostly just wait in between bouts of writing. WHY CAN I NOT DO THIS SOBER?

Mushrooms remind me how to live like a child, but then I go back to living in the adult world. They treat me like one of them because I look like one of them. I often want to do things that are not customary in the adult world, either because they are just not usually done or because the law explicitly forbids it. When walking on the sidewalk the other day, I was curious about a shrub. But I could only see its leaves. I was interested in the trunk and the branches. I thought to get down on my hands and knees there on the sidewalk to have a look, but then these other thoughts came marching one after another into my mind like soldiers. One of the soldiers said, the sidewalk is dirty. The next said, someone will see you. The next said, you are not dressed like a gardener. And so I went, walking on down the sidewalk, not knowing what I would have seen if I had lifted up the skirt of the shrub.

I finish one piece of writing. I want to continue on. I have more to say—things I thought of while writing, but they were unrelated or otherwise wouldn’t fit in the prose, because of the technicality of it, and at the moment I was writing, they wouldn’t fit presently, so I carried on with whatever else and my other thoughts waiting in the queue were forgotten. But I have now remembered some of them! Alas, they are only parts. Their beauty was, and still is, in their belonging to and being placed in each of the appropriate stations inside of the whole. Now, I must forget them, maybe forever. Whether they will return to me, in my mind, is up to forces greater than me. My only choice in the matter is either to hold them and have them as they are for me now, or to let them go and know, twofold—that they may never return to me, but also that new and different others may come to fill their absences. Consistently faced with his choice, how deep shall I go with any one thought? How much time shall I spend with her? Does she have more to teach me, more to say? Or might I learn more from others—different, younger ones? Are my wishes the only ones to be considered in this matter? Now I am thinking no longer of thoughts, but of my relationship with my girlfriend.

On my knees, on the rug, I become aware of the classical music playing. I close my eyes, raise my arms in the air above my head, bend them at the elbow, twirl my fingers, curve the side of my body into a bow, and dance to the music—slowly, softly. I had a thought that someone might be watching. The possibility that someone might be watching made me ask myself, should I be dancing in this way? And now other thoughts come of this. First, we are at a cabin in the woods, just my girlfriend and I, and it is unlikely that anyone is watching. Second, if someone were watching, why should I dance any differently or stop? Third, why is it that someone else watching makes me consider whether I should or should not be doing something? Not even them ACTUALLY watching, just the THOUGHT that they MIGHT be makes me second-guess the way in which I am dancing, alone in a cabin in the woods. Perhaps it is too feminine—the way my side bends into a bow and my fingers twirl. I am a man. Should I, therefore, not be dancing like a woman?

As a writer, I think of myself as such—as being one, a writer. When I write, if it seems like it might be becoming a piece that will be well-received—like a young boy shows early athletic promise and might grow up to become a great baseball player—then the thought that it might be so interrupts me while I have not yet finished with making the piece whole. I think to myself, what if so-and-so reads this, or if they publish me in such-and-such magazine? And then what will that mean for me? Riches, fame, and all the other gifts that are usually given to the main character in a story that ends well. But it interrupts me, this dream of glory, as I am still in the act of making the darn thing.

I worry that I can only write well when I have eaten mushrooms. I don’t believe this is true. I think I write well even when I have not eaten mushrooms. It is the READING that is different after having eaten mushrooms. Everything I read seems to be right and true, fantastic and new. It seems this way whether I have written it or someone else has. When I am writing, I am also reading what I have written. On mushrooms, what I am writing sounds wonderful. I have had this experience several times—eating mushrooms, writing, deeming it well-written. Thusly must the belief, first, and worry, next, have arisen.

Now, as an aside, being an aside because I believe my previous thought has concluded well where it has, still, I might add: I have read, while on mushrooms, what I wrote, while NOT on mushrooms, and found it to be the work, not of a genius but, of one relatively advanced in their craft. I have also read, while NOT on mushrooms, what I wrote, while on mushrooms, and found it to be the work of a lunatic who aspired to write, discovered mushrooms, thought they might aid in his writing process, ate them too often, and never stayed sober long enough to master the intricacies of the craft, which can only be learned by long hours of bored, tedious, and frustrated trying-and-failing, interspersed with reading the greats and wondering—of some of them, why can I not write as well as this myself; of others, are they really as great as everyone says they are?

While writing on mushrooms, many thoughts come to mind while I am already engaged with writing a specific one. Some of these I can forget easily, as they showed a little promise of extraordinariness. Others, those that show more promise, make it difficult for me to decide—between cutting short my current engagement (writing a thought that, before, what the same as this other one than I now consider, a question mark) and ignoring it to delve deeper where I am already standing, up to my knees in disturbed dirt, digging deeper still, to find any stones unturned. They linger, like a first taste that forbids a full bite. With one hand they wag a finger in front of my face that says “no, not yet.” The other hand they hold out, palm facing up. They are asking for something. A price. The price I must pay if I wish to bite into, chew, and mull over the thought to which I have not yet committed. The price is the one with whom I am already. Both, I cannot have. I must place the one I have, still an infant, into the upturned palm. I will never know what the youngling might have grown up to be. But, oh! Here is another, newer, brighter. If only shining its light to attract, if the flame cannot stay lit, if it proves to be no better than the one I had before, then I will go searching once more, and again—the two hands: one, wagging its finger; the other, an upturned palm.

I feel that one of us will win, and the other must then lose. Why must it be this way? I read recently that, based on our evolutionary predispositions, the man desires to spread his seed far and wide, while the woman wants to retain a man to provide for and protect herself and any children they may have together. Is this true? How can I say? But let’s pretend that it is. The desires of the man and the woman are opposing. The women cannot retain the man while he continues to spread his seed. Or, maybe … Already I see margins of possibility in which the man and the woman, in the context of a monogamous relationship between them, must not necessarily be opposing forces. Alas, here I am on the ground floor, writing my own thoughts, while my girlfriend is upstairs writing hers (I can hear the keys clacking on her keyboard), and we are breaking up. It’s not a surprise. We’ve been talking about it. At one point, she wanted me to pack my things and leave that same day. Somehow we ended up here together in this beautiful cabin nestled in the forest of Northern California outside of town called Elk. And I return to my beginning question: if we are to separate, why must it feel like one side is winning and the other is losing? Because one side chooses to end it while the other wants it to continue. There is the opposition: one wants it to end while the other wants to continue. In this situation, both cannot have what they want. Unless, maybe the relationship can transform. One wants it to end, but maybe it doesn’t need to end on the whole. Would the other be okay with a few modifications, in part? Could the relationship still live on, after the modifications? This makes me realize: relationships are always transforming. Because they involve individuals who are always changing. What happens when one changes in a way that the other doesn’t want them to? Then it becomes complicated. She asks, were you this way when I met you? How could I not have seen it? All my other relationships were the same way. Blaming—me, herself, past boyfriends. But the facts remain: people change, relationships transform. Now, the question is: how do we navigate the transformation?

I thought I heard her crying. I couldn’t tell if it was just the music or if she really were up there whimpering, sniffling. I got up and walked over to the steep steps (almost a ladder) of the old-water-tower-turned-cabin. I grabbed the railing and climbed up. There she was—her caramel skin in contrast to the white sheets, her curly hair slightly frizzy (as it gets when she’s been rolling around in bed). I asked how she was doing, if she was okay, or something like that (I forget exactly what I said). We skated, as we tend to, like those water bugs, along the surface, before descending. Then she told me that she HAD been crying. I told her, oh, I’m sorry, well, that is why I came up here. Then she said oh, did you hear me? You couldn’t have. It was only a tear. I wasn’t sobbing. I told her about how I thought I had heard crying in the music. We marveled. I must have FELT her crying, somehow, even though I wasn’t actually hearing her. She was crying because she read a few pages out of a book she found on the steps by a Vietnamese author about how he was thankful for his mother and for memories of when she would take him to the mall. My girlfriend’s mother is Vietnamese. I suspect that is why she felt a closeness to this particular book. She said, “I realized I want to cry more. I want to have things in my life that make me cry. Not just shallow melodrama. You know? Like (and she preceded to describe what she meant and how she felt in words that were perfect, but all I can remember is …) things that make you feel like you’re on the brink of being alive.” The moment was sublime, terribly so. I, knowing our relationship was ending, one tear already on my cheek and more welling. Her, being beautiful in her body as she always is, but then also the depths and intricacies of her emotions, as well as her lexical prowess to communicate them. The trees through the window behind her, bending in the wind, a glint on the glass making their green look red. Ah! What is a man to do? Other than audibly call for his deity, cry more than he already has, and shield his eyes, only to pry them back open, unveiling the portal to his heart, inviting in the moment that is more than can be captured by any artist, no matter how skilled, nor how numerous his forms. Only I, as I was in that moment, the material world as it was, chakras balancing, energy fields in opposition, formless feelings floating, angels singing—all conspiring to torture me, as if all the potency of life were distilled down into one drink, one swallow. As soon as it touched my lips I sputtered and spat. If it were spread out and watered down, so that I could have had time to process, make rational, cram into my own understanding—then I could have taken it. As it was—me, her, and the trees through the window behind her—I had to run. In this case, I slowly descended the steep steps, holding onto the railing. It took some willpower and a great deal more conditioned concern for my bodily well-being not to suddenly fling myself down them as fast and as recklessly as my heart and soul were fleeing. But no matter the manner in which I did, I ran, nonetheless. I ran like I always do. I ran like a thief into a field clutching above my head the bouquet of flowers she had given me, petals flying off of them as I went. See, I’ve never been able to stay put there and just listen to her. As soon as she starts being beautiful (which is immediately, and always) I run away with derivatives, hand-me-downs of her to render into my heart, so that others will pay me, praise me, or whatever will validate the male equivalent of female beauty. I do this, even as I am somewhat aware that I am running in a wide circle, the path of which is laden with obstacles, deceits, let-downs, repetitious exhaustion, self-loathing, and various other trials which must be faced by a man working his way up through the world to be worthy of a woman at the top—all of this, I persist in putting myself through, even as the woman of my dreams lies here in bed asking me, why will you not listen to me? Why will you not come to bed? Why will you not stay?

*** This prose above has the same idea as the poem, HER HONEY. I need to return to that poem. The idea is there. It is true. But it is not yet well-written.

When I forget to breathe, I cannot make up for it by taking rapid deep breaths, which is my habit. I failed, was resultantly worse off, may even suffer lasting damage, but there are some mistakes in the past that I can’t set right presently. I can only learn from them and avoid making the mistake again.

I am realizing, now that I’ve come down from the mushrooms high but still writing, that STAYING PRESENT is important for writing well. This is a partial answer to a recurring question: why do I write better on shrooms, compared to being sober? When I write sober, it usually goes like this: I am inspired by some sensory input, thought, or feeling, and then I formulate an IDEA thereof. I thus interrupt the otherwise seamless flow from stimulation to words, by having an IDEA of the stimulation before I begin to write. I end up writing about an impostor, the intermediary idea. While on shrooms, I stay present. I write about whatever comes up. And I write honestly, rarely second-guessing.

Posted on August 23, 2021August 23, 2021 by Cole

Driving in a storm under a series of bridges

In a storm
The rain peppers the windshield
Making a rapid
Pattering noise

Under the bridge
There is a moment
Of clarity
As the windshield clears
And the pattering stops

Until we come out on the other side
And the windshield blurs again
And the noise even louder
In contrast to the momentary quiet

July 18, 2021 at 01:57PM

Posted on July 18, 2021August 18, 2021 by Cole

Nashville #2

In Nashville sitting at the bar
In a diner for breakfast
After waiting in line for an hour
I got disgusted with the city
All at once
And couldn’t even order
When the waitress asked me
What I wanted
I just had to get out and away
From the food, the alcohol
The obesity, the intoxication

My dad told me
When we were waiting in line
That the wait was so long
Because everyone was still
Collecting their unemployment checks

Once I got out and walked
On the sidewalk
I saw a homeless man
Shirtless in the hot sun
Still not sure
Whether he should be awake
Or asleep
Or what he should do

I smelled the grossness of the city
The vomit from the man
We saw sitting on the curb
Last night
His friend was holding his head
To keep him upright

The leftover food in the trash cans
The sweat
The smells from the street food carts
That would have normally
Incited my appetite
Mixing with the foul smells
Made me want to vomit
More than I wanted to eat

I wanted to purge myself,
The people walking by
To eat, to drink
More
Already eating, drinking
On their way
To eat, to drink
More

I walked faster
To sweat, to move my muscles
To work
To do the opposite
Of eating, and drinking
More

It’s no wonder
How more than half the people
I saw walking around the city
Were obese

Every egg scramble
On the menu at the diner
Had cheese in it

All the tables were full
Of families, couples
And bachelorette parties
Eating, drinking
Smiling, laughing
Talking about where
They would eat and drink
Later that night

Sitting in their hotel rooms
Watching TV
In between meals
And bouts of drinking

July 18, 2021 at 10:27AM

Posted on July 18, 2021August 18, 2021 by Cole

Nashville

As if I had just seen
My fingernails
For the first time
Pissing
In the basement
Bathroom
Of the bar
On Broadway
For what seemed like
Forever
So what did I have to do
But look at my nails
And wait
To finish my piss
And then go upstairs
To get the drink
They said they would
Order for me

July 09, 2021 at 09:59PM

Posted on July 10, 2021August 18, 2021 by Cole

Bored

At the cabin in Big Sky, we were often bored. Lake and I woke up early to work in the morning. I edited my poetry and Lake learned the formulas to make algorithmic art. We weren’t bored when we were working.

When Kyle woke up in the morning, he was almost immediately bored. He preferred to work at night, sometimes after midnight. He felt the nighttime was more conducive to producing his particular style of bass music that he described as “swampy.”

This morning, Kyle woke up, came upstairs from his bedroom in the basement, and then immediately laid down to take a nap on the shag rug in the living room.

At some point in the morning, we each make our own breakfasts in the kitchen. We take naps in the sun on the deck, on the ledge by the window, on the rug in the living room. We work on our laptops sitting at the dining table, standing at the kitchen counter, lying in the recliner.

Those are the only three definite things: eating, sleeping, and working. Other than those three, we walk around with our hands in our pockets. We pick things up, look at them, and set them back down. We look at things without picking them up. We sit down, stand up, and sit back down. We go outside onto the back deck, take some deep breaths of the crisp mountain air, and then come back inside.

We ask each other what we are doing—none of us have an answer to the question. We go upstairs into the loft to shoot a game of pool. We walk around with our hands in our pockets some more. We wonder if it’s too early to have lunch. We wonder if it’s too soon to distract one of us who has gotten into a flow working.

Being here in Big Sky and being bored makes me think about how busy we are most of the time, especially when we are working 9-to-5 jobs. Often motivated by either socially normative reasons (working a job, caring for others, not being lazy) or biologically necessary reasons (eating, sleeping), we are not accustomed to not knowing what to do with ourselves.

We are faced with a question that seems simple but can actually become complex, depending on how serious we are about getting it “right” and if we even believe there is a “right” answer in the first place. The question is this: what should we do?

Boredom is the state of not having an immediate answer to this question. Laziness is the state of having an immediate answer to this question and just choosing not to do it.

I enjoy being bored. It brings with it empty space and opportunity for creativity. There is less room for creativity when your time is scheduled with what you already know needs to be done.

Posted on June 7, 2021June 7, 2021 by Cole

Plane surveying

Through a plane window
There are a few
Simple sights—
The sky, the clouds,
And the ocean

But the land
Is complicated
At least because of
All the man-made structures
—Roads and buildings

But the natural land
Is also varied

By the spines of mountains
And the ridges
Running down the sides

The flat lands
That are different shades
Of gold, brown, and green

And the lakes
And other land-locked
Bodies of water

Which would be as simple
As the ocean and the sky
Going off forever
As themselves
And never changing

But the land-locked
Bodies of water
Are defined by their shores

And so contribute
To the land
Being more detailed
Than the sky, the clouds,
And the ocean

Originally written: Wednesday, Jun 2, 2021, 6:41 PM

Posted on June 6, 2021 by Cole

Body parts

A lady in the seat behind me
On the plane
Talks
To the person next to her
About her body
And how
Her brain has not been doing so great
And one of her toes is swollen
As if
Her body parts
Were members of her family
Appendages apart
From herself

Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:41 AM

Posted on June 6, 2021 by Cole

One boat

Looking out of the plane window
And down at the ocean
I saw a solitary boat
I leaned forward in my seat
To see the ocean through the window
As far back as I could behind us
And then I leaned back
To see all the blue
As far forward as I could see ahead of us
And there was not
A single
Other
One

Originally written: Tuesday, May 25, 2021, 10:29 AM

Posted on June 6, 2021 by Cole

11/11/20

As our plane ascends into the sky above the clouds, I am reminded of the heights achieved by man. Not one man, but many. One can only play his part. He cannot hope to achieve the whole of it on his own. Man is necessarily a social animal. They say, “If you want to go fast, to alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I am growing to understand this. My girlfriend is teaching me emotional intelligence. I cannot think only of myself. “To whom much has been given, much is expected.” I would be happy working for the good of others, and not just for myself.

Originally written on: November 11, 2020

Posted on March 22, 2021March 22, 2021 by Cole

Boat lights

Outside of the plane window, the boat lights in the dark night dot the ocean below, just like the stars in the sky above. I think for a second we may be flying upside down. I consider whether we will still get there, flying such, and it seems, to the best of my measurements, that it will make no difference. There is also the fact of gravity, and my being seated, to suggest that those are not stars below. What then? I know only stars to dot the dark void in this way, and they have always been above me. Ah! They are boats. I realize, as what I see is crammed into what I know. Though I would have been perfectly happy to accept that we were flying upside down.

Originally written on: November 16, 2020

Posted on March 22, 2021March 22, 2021 by Cole

Head space

I know things now
But I fear to forget
So I write them, recite them
Read them over and over
And carry a head on my shoulders
Full of the past
Like a traveler’s trunk
With too many things from home
On a journey to a place
Where there is no return
Back to how
Things were before

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Cole

Nobody downtown

On the train going south from San Francisco now. Downtown was so empty as I walked to the station. The virus has emptied out all the tall buildings, which, in turn, has closed down all the shops and restaurants. There are still a few transients about, talking to themselves. But they seem lonely, even lonelier than usual. One woman I walked by was carrying on the most sincere conversation with no one. Not shouting, or jumping around; she was just hanging onto a lamppost and leaning out over the curb, balancing on one leg. I walked by and she didn’t even notice me. It was just her, all alone, for at least a few blocks. And all these tall buildings and wide streets, designed for crowded weekdays and rush hours. There were some service men too. One was loading boxes into a van from inside one of the cafes. It was a cafe I used to go to actually; I used to get their ham sandwich during my lunch break. Another man was up on a scaffold, fixing a window. Other than that, there was no one. It was surreal, seeing downtown that empty.

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Cole

Excerpts from A Trip in Montana

I am a little off balance now as I walk. And so it begins.

Large ants crawl on the Mexican blanket. I am interested in their movements.

The shadows have caught my attention as they dissipate with the movements of the clouds between the sun and the ground.

It is starting to open up. Ideas in my head seem to be connected.

My friends are talking on the deck above. I am on the patio below. Their words are disruptive. They are talking about college.

I have a desire to put on my shoes and go into the woods.

I am going into the woods, to discover species anew and to give them new names.

It is hard to write
With the light so bright
On white paper

As I put my pen to paper, I almost forget the words, but still they come to me somehow, flowing from objective reality itself, then through my senses, and seamlessly into Word.

I feel the sun hot on my shoulders through my shirt.

An ant crawls up the leg of my shorts.

I have found a convenient stump to sit on and write.

There is an ant on my left pointer finger, probing me with his antennae.

I need to get out of the sun. My neck is already burnt.

I am tripping, assuredly. I have wandered a bit farther into the woods, where there is some shade. I stepped across a crumbling trunk, like a balance beam, to get here.

I can hear my friends laughing behind me.

I begin to feel fear for the future; fear because this good feeling will come to an end.

I remember the Bene Gesserit mantra: “Fear is the mind killer.”

The fear comes from my ego. When I remember that I am part of all this, the fear goes away.

There are certain words that reassure me. They are often phrases or quotations. Some degree of spirituality, it seems, is just to memorize words, and then, when the right time comes:

(1) Recognize the appropriate situation.

(2) Recite the words in your mind.

(3) Let action flow forth from your body with the realized meaning of those words.

Again, I start to think of the future, and ill feelings immediately follow. Stay present! Stay mindful! This is the heart of my practice.

I fear so much for the future. I fear so much for my ego.

I am concerned for the physical health of my body.

I am concerned from the performance of my financial investments.

Even as a bug lands on my hand, I check to make sure it is not a bee that can sting me. So what if it is?

I am a part of all this. If the bee stings me, it is a part of all this.

It is like the book that I cannot recall the name of. Ishmael, there it is.

He talks of how man was in sync with nature before. This is how it should be. This is the answer.

All of man’s developments have placed him in a position above nature. Many of man’s modern problems would be solved if he would return to his place in nature.

Now, that seems unlikely. It would mean the death of many humans on our overpopulated planet. We have trodden too far down this track.

I hear my friends laughing in the distance. I wonder if they appreciate the deeper power of the trip. Or do they take it all to be just funny visuals?

As they speak with each other, they are kept from going deeper into their own minds.

I think of the time. I do not have a watch. I am fully tripping now.

I wonder how long I have been standing in this place. My legs have held me just fine, but when I look at them, I am unsure of how they operate.

I do feel taller. This is something Sean mentioned he often feels while tripping.

When I misspell a word or scribble, I think, “Don’t worry, they’ll get it.”

But I must realize, they won’t get it. All of THIS, is captured only in my humble words.

I should stop writing and enjoy it.

It occurs to me to draw.

I laugh at myself for thinking I could draw such beauty.

I start to feel ill feelings. I feel them run a familiar track inside of me. I see them, like rushing rivers, encountering the dam of my heavily-fortified ego.

I observe, dangerously at this time, what my ego is built of.

The wind blows. I let it pass. I pick it back up.

My ego is built from who I think I am. My history, my present physical body, what others say about me …

It is hard to keep track of this thought.

I am fully tripping. I have stood in one place for so long, I had almost forgotten what it’s like to move.

I am fully tripping—these exact words occur to me again.

I constantly have these thoughts:

– What should I be doing?

– Is this, what I’m doing right now, productive?

And then I start to think into the future about what will be most productive …

I have to remind myself, that is not the game we are playing.

Stay here. Stay present.

It strikes me how easily I forget. I have an ill feeling, and then I am distracted, and then I forget.

Even control over my body seems to be something I could part ways with, other than for the convenience of my fingers which hold this pen to write.

Things occur to me as being beautiful, and in that moment of occurrence, nothing else matters. My senses are fully immersed in the beauty, like the sight of a crumbling tree trunk, split open and filled with forest debris. So dead, but so perfectly at home.

I think, how will these words sound to the others who read them?

I remind myself, it does not matter. Stay here. Stay present.

Of all the bugs, mosquitoes are the only ones I swat. I do not so much mind the prick and the drawing of blood. I am more worried about disease.

This idea of disease, planted in me by society, affects my behavior towards other living creatures. Again, I think of reading Ishmael.

I cough to spit. It surprises me that I have a throat and a mouth.

I am so at home in the woods right now. The wind blows through my hair, just like it does through the leaves in the trees.

I hear something behind me, a rustle in the leaves. I feel the desire to make myself unseen, to crouch low, to hide.

I feel that I understand my ancient ancestors in this moment. At the same time, I feel the call back to civilization.

I think of my friends and the house, and I smile.

I am surprised to feel my facial muscles smiling.

As the sun shines and the birds chirp, I am filled with so much love for nature.

A moment ago, it was dark. The clouds covered the sun. I was scared of what I could not see among the trees. I was alone.

I am resistant to going back, to have to talk.

I know it will be hard to stay out here for too long. I do not know the ways of the woods. I would lose. I do not want to lose, and so starts the civilization of man.

I was born civilized. At this point, it would take much undoing.

I see a runner on the street through the woods. It invokes a feeling of familiarity.

From where I stand writing in the woods, I feel perfectly balanced between far away from, and still close by, to civilization.

If I were farther into the woods alone, I might feel a more primal fear for my survival.

As I see things on the forest floor, I lean down with my paper and pen, like a photographer with a camera.

I hear trucks on the road. I remember what people have told me in the past.

I just feel so happy, particularly to be inside of my body.

To be contained in a physical being, capable of realizing thought.

The body is a beautiful thing. More than just the beauty of its form, but also of its function—to realize thoughts and feelings.

The importance of yoga, to cultivate this connection between body and mind, occurs to me now.

It is a practice I could spend my whole lifetime learning.

In contrast, I am less interested in certain aspects of my job. There are aspects that seem far removed from man’s natural state. Like keeping the body seated in the same desk chair all day.

—

Woah! A mother moose and a child moose just passed, not more than forty feet from where I am standing here in the woods.

At first, I felt immense fear. I could not tell what was near me in the woods, other than that it was big—bigger than a bird or a chipmunk.

Your eyes play tricks on you between the branches in the trees.

I am being bitten by mosquitoes. I choose to return to civilization, knowing the risks.

I am sad to leave. I must remember the connectedness to nature that I experienced here.

—

I hear my friends and their words. I cannot speak to them. They must come out here into the woods and experience it for themselves.

All around me, the forest floor is alive, mostly with ants. There are also mosquitoes, flying and landing.

There are many aspects. You do not need to fear that it will be over. It will continue. Whether your ego is involved, does not matter. You are a part of it all.

But these mosquitoes are insufferable!

I feel a drop of rain—another element forcing me to return.

My friends talk too much.

They do not wait in silence long enough to experience it themselves.

—

I look back at Marie, I think to talk to her as Marie—she, of the flesh and blood, with whom I share memories.

But she is not the same, as she appears to me now. She is participating in the One. She is a soul, and that’s all that matters.

I think of my own flesh. Am I housed in the bones I would choose? What does it matter, if we’re all the same.

These words are so meager. What art form then? What form could capture this most fully?

There is the question, first, of what art form could capture a lived experience most fully. Then, there is the question of what art form could capture THIS (tripping) most fully.

It occurs to me now that the “come up” has passed. We have arrived at the plateau.

—

I am not sure if any of the others would be willing to participate in this experience in the way that I participate in it.

The woods are a very clear analogy. Deeper in the woods, there is only the sound of wind in the leaves. The only movements are the ants on the ground.

Back at the house, there is music from man-made speakers, man-made words, and even man-made men.

These man-made men are the ones who do not understand.

I think of Ishmael again.

We come from nature, that is where we will find ourselves in order.

Man does not understand himself. Not even the accumulated knowledge of generations of man thinkers can understand one single man.

How then, can we expect man to build himself?

He cannot do the job of nature.

It occurs to me now, how brilliant the book Ishmael really is.

Even as I write these words, I realize that going back to read them will not be the same.

Impossible to achieve the same understanding.

—

I am aware of the ground being alive with ants. I cannot look anywhere on the ground where I do not see an ant.

These ants are like men—successful, relative to other species, and still working to further themselves.

The operations of nature make sense to me in terms of business. An enterprising species will take market share from others and win.

I almost caught a look of myself reflecting in the window, blue bandana. I looked away, not wanting to see my face.

Talking aloud to Marta, my voice sounds inadequate. I wish it were more musical.

—

You have to have your art form ready, before the experience.

When you are awash in the storm of your emotions, there must already be an artistic channel, into which that emotion might pour.

Without a specified channel, the emotion will search for one.

I am an emotional person, I realize now. I always have been. This emotion is my power. It fuels my actions.

—

If I allow it, the economy will engulf me here where I stand in this moment with the skills I have to offer, and my hopes and dreams to be used as motivators to put my skills to work.

The economy does not care where I land. It does not care what profession I choose. It will get use out of me, one way or another. This is management, the business of getting use out of people. And the managers report to investors, and so on.

This is the nature of the economy—investors pushing people to do things (who then push other people to do things) to make more money. It is the investor’s passion for more that sets the whole economy in motion.

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Cole

Descent

“We’ve started our descent,” the flight attendant says. The plane banks to the right. When I look out the window, I can see straight down to the trees and streets and buildings. The houses are each about the size of a penny on the window, even smaller. We’re low enough that I can make them out as being houses with grey shingle roofs. One house has a circular driveway. It’s larger than the other houses and bordered by trees.

I wonder to myself, “What’s going on inside that house?” Is anyone home? Are they on vacation? Does a family live there? Are the parents happily married? Are the children happy to be children? Have they had lunch? Do they have a dog? Is someone taking a shower? Is someone doing something they’re not supposed to be doing? What’s going on inside that house?

I wonder, and I bet nobody else on the plane wonders about exactly the same thing as me. The plane levels out and the big house with the circular driveway slides out of view. White clouds fill the window again.

Posted on August 2, 2020August 2, 2020 by Cole

Getting here

I go out

To get here

Not really knowing

Where I’m going

All the while

But now

Having arrived

Realize

This is surely

Where I was headed

All along

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Why writers must travel

In search

Of different

Travelling

And changing scenery

Smoking

And drinking

To move his body

Or at least his mind

A writer

Must always be

On the move

Lest he find

New ways

Of writing the same

Posted on May 25, 2020 by Cole

Keep on keeping on

I like to be

Getting going

On my way

After all

There seems to be

Something still ahead

On the horizon

Over yonder

So long as I can

Just keep stepping

In that direction

I’ll be alright

Posted on April 4, 2020 by Cole

Travel on

O’er in my memory

My mind has run

The now worn path

Of fine times past, indeed

So of this place

Where I’ve long stayed

As with all things

Which do arrive

Doth finally come

This time now

To take my somber leave

A thousand ways

In my old age

I’ve lived my younger days

If you could only

Promise me

One last thing

Before I go

To have as much

In memory, your own

When time for you

Doth come as well

To travel on

Posted on March 1, 2020 by Cole

wind radio

instead

of the radio

i prefer

a little wind

whipping through

the car window

barely cracked

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

final approach

we are on

our final approach

to san francisco

says the pilot

as the plane

slants downward

and my stomach

presses into

my seatbelt

i get

a little scared

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

beautiful sunset

a beautiful sky

passed through

all colors

of the unspeakable palette

unwriteable red

right there

on the window

phosphorescent

between white clouds

and unseen upward

blue sky

that meld in the middle

neon orange

yellow in the center

glowing

gets me

shimmering golden

like it can’t be

at a time

when i am most glad

not to be blind

cut at odd

perfect angles

by cloud coverage

red ready

to wage light war

on the white

purple battleground

some turquoise even

i think it’s turquoise

made by what two colors

i don’t know

like a life giving light

all colors i swear

that i’ve ever seen

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

calm

palms resting

hands folded

on my

belly breathing

reclined

in my chair

relaxing

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

turbulence

the airplane shakes

and the woman in front of me

lifts up the window cover

hoping to see land close below

then shuts the cover quickly

—i presume because …

with my own cover closed

i cannot know for sure,

but i presume because

she did not see land

as close as she had hoped

and i feel some fear too

for her and i both

as the plane

continues to shake

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

a nice man

from colorado

sits next to me

on the plane

says he can’t

stand the broncos

but can’t root

for his chiefs

on account of

his denver friends

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

turbulence

opening the window cover

on the plane

to see

what shakes us so

Posted on January 1, 2020 by Cole

riding in the backseat

relax where you go

watch what comes with

wait and see what happens

hear for wind gone by

sigh for scenes past

on the road going somewhere

in the back seat no matter

let the driver drive

lean back and relax

you’ll get there

Posted on December 29, 2019 by Cole

a.m. radio

a car radio plays

at the stoplight

outside our apartment

at 3 a.m.

and i wonder

if the driver

is a late traveler

trying to stay awake

or an early worker

trying to stay awake

Posted on December 21, 2019 by Cole

checking

i check things

that have been checked

two or three times

already

sometimes

just moments before

zipping up my bag

just moments before

boarding my flight

and unzipping it

to check once more

that my laptop is there

or the front door at night

turning the knob

and pulling

to make sure

the bolt is latched

before bed

or opening and closing

my wallet

counting cards and ID

putting it in my pocket

then taking it back out

to open

and check again

opening the alarm app

on my phone

to ensure the alarm is set

for my early shift tomorrow

checking my schedule

over and over

to confirm the flight

is this week not next

Posted on October 28, 2019 by Cole

off lately

a little off lately

after two

earthquakes

in san francisco

in the same week

now

taking off

and that moment

on a plane ride

when you float

just briefly

i pick up one foot

for a step

and set it down

just an

inch or two

below where i’d except

my world

shaking and flying

just a little

off lately

like i said

Posted on October 28, 2019 by Cole

i wonder

i wonder about

optimizing

in the opposite direction,

for less

instead of more.

i wonder about

getting out of the city

and into the mountains.

i wonder about

tending to a garden

instead of

going to the grocery store.

i wonder about

spending my time

instead of

saving my money.

i wonder about

calculating how

to make a little last

instead of

how to make more.

i wonder if

i would get to the mountains,

and after a short period

of reprieve with less,

begin quickly again

to wonder about

having more.

Posted on October 5, 2019 by Cole

less names in nature

there are more

things with names

walking down

the city street

than there are

walking on a trail

in the woods

—or at least more

of the names

that i know

—being that i know

the makes

and models of cars

and names for

certain types of people

better than

the species of trees

or types of stone

—so when in the city

i can say about

the businessman

and the BMW

or the gas prices

at $3.95

but in the forest

i can only say

there are trees,

rivers and rocks

and lots of them

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Cole

plant person in row 18

in the aisle seat

of row eighteen

on the airplane

bound for oakland

another passenger

i watch

from the window seat

holds out her hand

for the flight attendant

with spread fingers

as if her arm

were a tree branch

and the stewardess

coming by with her cart

rather than

pour water in a cup

and hand it to her

would walk by

with a spray bottle

and spray her

humanoid

branch hand

for sustenance

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Cole

flight safety

i appreciate

the preparedness

of plane stewards

making flight

seem safe

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Cole

car nap #2

head rested against

the rained on window

watching

the wet white line

at road’s edge

trucks passing

shocking

so close

coming the other way

on the other side

of the middle

yellow line

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Cole

car window rain

water droplets

on the outside

of the car window

making a light

pitter patter

each

its own shape

some thin

and long

others small

and circular

each growing larger

as another

lands on top

gaining

enough weight

to slide

slightly down

like a snowball

absorbing mass

from other droplets

on the descent

streaking

faster

until joining

the fallen ‘fore

in a small stream

at the base

of the window

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Cole

in the absence

only so much

to write about

in the absence out here

quiet

and mostly

staying the same

other than

trees growing

and clouds moving

surely

but so slowly

imperceptibly

nature taking its time

refusing demands

of the human world

to grow faster

unnaturally

needing

an occasional trip

like this

to step off

the giant wheel

that spins

faster than most

thought it would

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Cole

big sky

they call this place

big sky

i know now

on the back deck

in a rocking chair

looking out

at the expanse

covered in complete

white cloud

without obstruction

other than

the pine trees

that form

the bottom border

of the big sky

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Cole

vacation home

all throughout the house

each in its own corner

a book at shelf’s end

an outlet above the baseboard

a stool underneath the desk

cushions on couch

handles and hinges on doors

glass in window panes

lived in sometimes

opened, walked through

twisted, turned on

heated, cooked, cleaned

but often left

just to be a house

out here

alone in the woods

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Cole

all this from montana (09/20/19)

knowing me on a misty morning like this in big sky Montana looking out from the deck seeing my breath the same color as the clouds the nestle down into the cleavage of the mountains like a woman’s necklaceThe soft and frequent pitter patter of rain that drops on my phone screen and the wet wood will become more frequent and harder later in the day the weather report tells us which is why we walking up early to make the drive to Yellowstone

I knows breeze in cold air in my mouth exhales vapor why I see the same trees this all last night now presumably just a little taller and a little more wet from the night rain chopped firewood place stacked at the mouth of the forest quite a lot of firewood next to two stops that must’ve been the contributors onetreeMust’ve been about twice as thick as the other judging from the chopped wood in the stumps some trees fall and naturally I wonder why those were not first used for the firewood seems like a good alternative to use a dead day instead of shopping at a living thing

on after and into what wouldn’t have been possible prior to what presently is more poignant than trying to remember

It is most often between generics and specifics choosing whether to lift off and leave earth or stay grounded in a real and present reality. The difference between being that with specifics you are committed. There is a time and place and to say one thing starts you down that path so that if you say something completely different halfway through then the reader will say wait a minute, this is not what I expected. Whereas with generics there are mostly pronouns and non-descript adjectives (the types of adjectives that could describe anything).

inward skies drift outward from mind’s eye into What was once water in the lake below now drifted up into vapor from the water surface that reflects it moving on drifting so this sky is a change of sceneThe same clouds that hide the stars at night giving a sense of soft safe protection aboveAround mountain peaks in the distance soon to return earth word in this rain

Inside painting cloud so I’d like a canvas three jobs against it clearly moving just enough to know it’s still real

edited: Inside a painting on the back porch clouds so white like a canvas the trees against it the green trunk spine branched tops defined so clearly against sky moving just enough to know it’s still real compared to trees against the forest so ambiguous seeing a forest for the trees wrapped in a blanket internally warm enough so my breath turns immediately to vapor making it harder to see through the smoke into the painting

unable to tell whether the clouds have changed or not being the same white overhead and no city noise to tell you when people are getting to or leaving work and your hunger the only clock telling you the time since your last meal and maybe tired at some point in the day napping if so in the leather sofa under the vaulted cedar ceiling waking and need needing to or at least laying my head back down and keeping my eyes open thinking as little as possible letting what happen will in the world outside this montana cabin off far away from what i will soon return to

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Cole

all this from montana (09/19/19)

how to have an experience with water flooring for the white waterfall in between being here and closing my eyes and folded my hands sitting on the rock next to the river or looking up eyes open thinking trying to speak about it this caused a conflict between being realizing realizing to matter now do you talk more specifically like the clusters of white bubbles created by the base of the waterfall that float down the river over and between rocks protruding above the surface easily seen as the water is so clear and broken temper falling into the river poking out of the water lead up against the Rockwall creating a bridge tears of stone face showing years of the riverCutting through the college drone of the water creating a nice background so I can barely hear the edges of my voice just the water going down the right hitting each tear and tell hitting the water in the white

The world rewards persistence Neil says referring to the river cutting through the rocks creating the waterfall right now see it says give something enough time and it will have an impact I think the myself that’s a tragedy of it that we only have so much time

feeling with fingertips plant leaves reaching for the side of the trail here in the crunch of gravel under sneakers my friends carrying on conversations in twos six of us total three sets of two is that with the width of the trail will allow here in the waterfall still has a distance behind us one story takes over everyone listen to the laughs

The trail Narrows now conversations trail off the width only allowing one at a time so you have to turn around to talk to the person behind you so naturally talking last and looking around and keeping to ourselves more

Only so much you could write about the woods with words needing colors to get around the edges of each individual rock or each fine Pineneedle on the trail of varying length a word we’re just say rock or Pineneedle and less mathematically down on hands and knees measuring and describing to the decimal point each size a painting send all these numbers automatically to the eyes so a meditative exercise conjuring up general words to describe a pleasant for scene as if to just repeat the word tree tree tree leaves leaves leaves brock brock brock rock is what I meant to say and these doing the job of words to country up memories of your own nature scenes

creating making more being in what you are see you can see here feel remembering like this before wondering if it is the same and if New how knew where? At the edges? Just barely different? Or completely nothing ever seen before or the same using memory words taught and rememberedOr new words shouted naturally whispered maybe sounds recorded that may not fit letters

Disorienting at the edge of a cliff to look out and see and get so far into that site forgetting your own feet at the edge almost leaning forward into the picture forgetting you’re funny then to waiver and feel the wind remembering your own place and stepping backYour own body and its limitations causing the loss of the site and even more than that you saw it but that you were in it and part of it if not for your physical keeping you bodily

on a straight away sent now good golly getting into it having covered some distance heading the middle part they never seems to end on and on like try not to watch the time to get past farther faster checking stepping

you’re asking too much of your experience want to get to last longer otherwise be more when it is as overwhelms finitely as Humanizer created for Keeping the sensation of touch in your hand only as long as you hold onto what you’ve picked up when you drop it to pick up something else you can not keep what you had before the same as when you turn your head to trade one site for another or walk farther on the trail see to be somewhere else entirely so you must go and taken only what comes when it does and work hard to be taking in Nothing other than what has come

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Cole

relax

it makes me nervous

to fly

when i’ve work

unfinished

i tell baby

before i go

just in case

to publish everything

i’d honestly

rather stay

and not even sleep

until i finish

but i must relax

both because

there will be

what there will

and i have

no control

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Cole

front porch light

a light

above the front door

reaches out

down the steps

like an open hand

for the traveler

that might have

otherwise

walked on past

Posted on September 14, 2019 by Cole

at the hotel laying on the bed (08/31/19)

leading on after into the microphone especially when I have nothing good to say not mattering as much that the speech to text messes it up is the original might not of been good anyhow just finding time like laying in the hotel bed before going out to the pool to say something anything really into the phone thinking something and stopping myself because thinking it might not be good but then knowing Shirley my ego has a hand in it and this being the main mistake when trying to write stream of consciousness but the complete lack of self consciousness during the kids through the window in the pool outside a little after 4 PM waiting for her food to settle so we can join them another long pause that the text doesn’t pick up like music would or a live performance when someone in the crowd would shout out what the hell are you doing not saying anything up there that I would showShout back I’m thinking but really not needing to do that now just needing to let it flow but can’t maybe a swim well maybe swing will help

at the same time you still have to be listening to what you’re saying Jane not to listen to just say and let it go otherwise what is being said is affected by what was said and what will be said and what is being sad all the time can’t be gotten through without what is behind or ahead you need to close my eyes and not look at the screen as the words appear but then being conscious of the speech to text turning off after 20 or 30 seconds seconds as it does needing to fix the phone or ask able to show me howLike just now I had to restart it you can tell by the capital letter and I’m looking at my screen and conscious of that when I write best ascending into no knowledge of what I’m doing and also conscious now as talking too much about the process I need to talk about the white walls in the orange circle painted over and over on the back wall in the white drape go to bed in the window letting in sunlight at 4 PM and baby here next to me patiently waiting and listening like she always does

Leaning my head off the edge of the bed with nothing else to say at the hotel having gotten out of town working a lot recently but this negatively affecting my writing not being able to get into the mindset and create when doing the same rudimentary tasks over and over and just wanting to think of nothing when I get home and spend time with baby even now out of town but I’m usually inspired a little less so but it’s all right I suppose work going well and the art will come back I hope

neither not even having energy your inspiration to get down let’s go but I can still get something down just talking about the ceiling line always the ceiling laying down looking up in the sound outside just nothing inspired in the situation so if I say my situation and what I see which I usually am excited about relaxed enough in this case but just not necessarily excited like it’s artistic just satisfactory and making me comfortable but the inspiration idea that this is really anyDifferent than what anybody else is doing on a regular basis without that it’s hard to talk a lot and fast about it so really just mumbling right now and trying hard to no avail laying on the bed in my towel after a swim waiting for baby to finish her shower and then take a nap and maybe dinner later not really matter and I think needing to remember now just to be thankful for when I’m comfortable and not having to create so much all the time

speech to text working well now and wanting to take advantage of it when my words are worth written down clearly but at the same time becoming conscious of the fact that there is no excuse if what is written isn’t any good so the instruments of production are precise enough that the fault lies only with the producer and really having nothing to sayIn this moment other than what the technology might mess up for me

Posted on September 2, 2019 by Cole

driving a rental car on the one (08/31/19)

In the car driving making reality matter more whereas when just sitting shape shifting when I look at it could be one thing or another no matter what in the driver seat with a hand on the wheel what there is

In the car driving making reality better more that it does as I said with my hands folded in a chair on a bench at the park for example watching as things pass by people walk and branches blowing all of it can change as artistically create whether I want to imagine the people at something else like blobs expanding and contracting or the trees as castles so constantly re-creating the world as it isn’t what I wanted to be this big part of my heart to constantly reimagine and see differently however this is not possible and driving if you see a stop sign and imagine as a green light or see a one-way road and imagine it has two there will be trouble reality as it is needs to stay that way in order of everybody on the road to be following the same rules such that artist shouldn’t be allowed to drive I don’t think not because they don’t want to fall the rules or because they’re not capable of knowing them but because their mind will re-create and then them to be understood differently on the road to where everyone understanding things the same is the most important part of traffic working correctly so now behind the wheel on the one heading south with baby driving for the first time in a while it is difficult for me especially wanting to get out my phone and write this and also seeing a red light and thinking of all I’ve written about red lights and what they made and how they can be interpreted differently but in this case I need to just determine it is exactly what it is a red light that means stop and Nothing More no Rick re-creating it as something else especially not getting distracted and thinking about it so much that I don’t notice when it turns greenAlso this been wanting to go faster and faster and not necessarily follow in line and dodger on cars regardless of what I can’t see on either side that because it’s the right thing to do it because it will get As to our destinations faster and more so just because it’s what I feel and what I want but those are not the borders for driving feelings and desires is very much about following the rules driving there’s nothing really to do except for exactly where you’re supposed to and that is just not what I’m used to doing

The red light opens up and ceases to become a red light reaching past the scene itself as it appears just to my eyes and seeing into a submerged layer of the reality such that almost the feeling or the emotion of it gets through to me in my eyes Shirley are still seeing in the sense that they are processing the light but something deeper takesThe primary focus of my attention it is the same when I write sometimes and can imagine how somebody will read it usually one particular person when I’m deep in conversation or exchanging messages so I right now to create a grammar recording to have a sound read out loud read over again I can imagine they will skip the articles or read the verbs loud I need a few synonym verbs to really give the idea of the action one after another not separated by commas as they should be for conveying what is meantAs I feel it whether that is how it is normally communicate it or not

I love sitting shotgun consuming what I see through the windows but at the same time want to control the wheel controlling what the windows show and where we go but have trouble doing both at the same time sitting in the driver seat needing to pay attention to the road but wanting to recline my seat and watch writing the passing scenery reminding me you cannot be both god and a liver in your created world

I kind a like the headlight take such that you could pick up the pace and go for it not instructed by trees or climate clients crawling down towards the beach whitecaps ordering so blue meeting Paige

signs say call box now open etheldore st cross walk ahead chevron with techron historic moss beach distillery el granada 2 half moon bay 7 speed limit 55 driving by on the one doing about 40 just over the speedometer says signs showing me that trees i always fall the same, just tree, maybe tall or short, or green in spring and orange in fall, but mostly just tree, whereas a sign always has a name like speed limit 50 radar enforced princeton coral reef avenue el granada ave alhambra oceano hotel & spa pillar point harbor and other words telling me where i am and what i ought to see pointing in all directions other than where i am right now and way what i see right here without any sign having to tell me

she holds her lips to the back of my left hand that she holds with her right as we wait in traffic on the one merging two lanes into one so even slower now but not mattering with baby and our music here in the far feeling just fine not even noon with all the road ahead of us down south along the coast

Posted on September 2, 2019 by Cole

front of the bus

at the front

of the bus

between

the handrail

and the rest

of the pass-

engers

holding on

Posted on August 17, 2019 by Cole

backward bus

sitting backward

on the bus

is quite odd

moving

with your back

to the progress

having to turn

to see the signs

for your stop

Posted on August 8, 2019 by Cole

commuting

all hours

moving

to get somewhere

maybe

just making time

seem not so spent

still

and stretching out

by step

or wheels turning

often with others

never going to

exactly

the same place

Posted on August 8, 2019 by Cole

for fear of being formless

why crunched so much into a form that has passed for fear mostly of being formless so holding on without realizing that it is all still there and a brief detour won’t erase the whole map as long as the journeys traced with your finger are taken at some point or another or even that tracing itself is a location or event on a higher order of maps

why crunched so much

into a form that has passed

for fear mostly

of being formless

so holding on without realizing

that it is all still there

and a brief detour won’t erase

the whole map

as long as the journeys traced

with your finger

are taken at some point or another

or even that tracing itself

is a location or event

on a higher order of maps

Posted on August 3, 2019 by Cole

city routine

saved by routine

back in the city

settling into

what i know

not so chaotic

as vacation

waking up

each morning

with the full set

of possibilities

—refreshing

for the first

few days

then exhausting

and wanting

to get back

to what you know

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

new eyes

went

all the way

out here

just

to come back

and see

what i was

seeing before

now

just a little

bit different

seeing

an old world

with new eyes

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

back to the city

waiting

for the plane

to board

back

to the city

and take

a car

to the office

and resume

the life

i was living

before

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

sunburn

sunburned

on the first day

of a beach vacation

like tourists

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

vacation with baby

earlier at the beach in the waves out deep enough so baby could barely stand with her head above the water and especially had difficulty when a big wave would come and when we’d had enough and went back to shore our heads were pounding either from there being water in our ears or from the waves hitting our heads over and over so we tried to remedy the first by laying on our sides to let some of the water out but that didn’t work so we didn’t know but by then the sun had made our skin dry and warm so we forgot about our heads and fell asleep dreaming in and out with the sounds of the boys playing in the sand castle and the waves crashing a constant background noise until i slept for a while and baby woke me up saying she wanted to go so we got back in the car and drove along the pch and the traffic wasn’t too bad except for a short stretch right before we turned into toponga canyon and now we’re back in bed in the studio with a bird chirping outside and our host running the hose to water his bonsai trees and the dog trotting back and forth upstairs

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

entitled millennial (or, my parents don’t understand absurdism)

you get caught up

in thinking

what is worth it

with a working life

so on vacation

you’re thinking about

how much time

do i have to spend

back in the office

in order to make

as much

as this is worth

until you wonder

if you should

just spend

all your time

in the office

because nothing

is worth what

is required of you

to get it

Posted on July 24, 2019July 24, 2019 by Cole

back there vs. out here

back there, i’m building

out here, i look back

and see, what it is which

i can’t do while in it

like being unable

to figure out the width

of a river

while underwater

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

time: at work vs. on vacation

funny that the time 4:21 means nothing on a saturday on vacation but on a weekday back in the city it means it’s almost time to go home

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

sf vs. la

after so much time in the dark shadows of buildings and fog walking fast on sidewalks always getting somewhere most often to work crammed into the bus with everyone else doing the same and so feeling the same and so thinking nothing of it or of doing anything differently or least of all leaving but staying concentrated where a desk lamp or an office light makes clear the paper or computer screen to be focused on in contrast to the dark overcast often sunless and cold where the ocean water is freezing so even if you make it to the beach you stay on the rocky sand and still think about work because it’s really not that far away both in terms of space on the coast of town and in terms of time over a short weekend and all of this contributes to quite a lot of production and ego building and economic growth until you get on a plane because your girlfriend says it’s time for vacation and drive in the night so you can’t see up to a house in the mountains and fall asleep exhausted from the work week and stress of travel but then wake in the morning to find a different world where the sun sets higher and brighter and drive down to the ocean where the water isn’t as freezing and the sun not dressed in fog shines so that everything seems to be one and the ego is less of a concept not because of any spiritual realization but just because you can see a thing other than the brightness that melts it all together and makes you want to close your eyes so your not even seeing but just feeling the warmth of the sun and then before you know it laying back onto the sand with a smile on your face and waking up hours later well rested having forgotten everything you left in the foggy working city and thinking my god i could cancel my return flight and stay here with baby and let my landlord figure out what to do with my stuff and be like one of the beach bums that live in their cars that line the pch and haven’t moved for years

Posted on July 24, 2019 by Cole

freeways

freeways are

too fast for me

flinging forward

hunks of metal

kept from

killing you

just by

painted on

white lines

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

flight to LA

sitting in the airport waiting by the window as the sun sets for a flight to los angeles the flight before us deplaning and travelers a little sleepy less apprehensive for a flight not far just to LA at 9pm on a friday maybe tired from a long week in the office and getting away for the weekend like baby and i on our way to topanga canyon and then malibu beach on saturday

Posted on July 23, 2019 by Cole

travel self

in the morning

sitting at my desk

in the office

after a long

weekend

out of town

is is difficult

to remember

who i am

and what i do

i pull fragments

of my travel self

left in chicago

to reconstitute

my working self

in san francisco

Posted on June 16, 2019June 16, 2019 by Cole

a tourist can see

in a new place

seeing new

everyone old

doesn’t see new

not old

like wrinkles

old like

here for a while

having seen

again until

not seeing

new anymore

a tourist

like me

can see

everything

Posted on June 10, 2019 by Cole

Slow down, it’s alright

My flight from San Francisco to Kansas City is delayed.Tthey said our plan is delayed from Everett because the FAA regulates the amount of planes that can arrive at SFO when there is low cloud coverage. Looking out the windows, I can’t see a thing, except gray foggy mist—so I don’t really blame the FAA. It must be hard to be a pilot in this weather.

I don’t really mind the flight being delayed at all. It’s been a stressful week at work, and I’m headed home to see my family. It’s like a pocket in time has opened up. So I just have to sit here and write poetry and read and wait on the plane. There’s nothing I can do about it. My boss knows I’m taking off work tomorrow already anyway. And my sister’s graduation isn’t until the evening tomorrow night.

I love the parts of travel where there is nothing left to do. When you’re hurrying out of your building to catch a car, and you press the elevator button and watch the numbers going up and down—there’s nothing you can do. You’re in the queue. You’ve already fulfilled your responsibility of pressing the button and earned for yourself this small pocket of time. No matter how late you are, or how important the meeting is that you’re going to, you can’t do anything but wait and relax, and the burden of moving fast is lifted from your shoulders.

Posted on May 20, 2019May 20, 2019 by Cole

The right way

All around me are traps and snares and only one way is the right one and it’s not straight so always I must keep my eyes wide open and awake or I’ll move when I’m supposed to stay put or turn left when it’s the other way and just stopping or not going forward aren’t options until that’s what the right way tells me.

Posted on November 23, 2018 by Cole

Fly by night

I fly in the deep dark night past jostling fears of failure and falling, none of which matters much anymore now that the rain beats into the windows and the horizon is speckled with black clouds. We lurch on like a bullet train out of a pistol tunnel headed straight for an inevitable leap straight out of reality and into a world where the climbing higher takes on meaning in dimensions other than just the physical; our souls climb the celestial ladder together with just enough time to finish what we started in the early budding flower season when all relationships are happy just by virtue of two people having to come together; higher, here—things are more dire now and the risk is higher on both sides, deeper, higher into the more than physical divine sky and crashing, earthward back into a very physical and almost primal nature which is certainly a step backward from the ancient godly life that our love has taken on.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Good trip guys

Krys walks out the door after we’ve said goodbye, “Good trip, guys.”

We all laugh.

Krys walks out in the snow. His car is waiting, idling, blowing smoky exhaust into the cold air.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Bus trip

Wow, so much on the bus, trying to think of words for this but I don’t think there are any. Even my fingers streak across the screen. So many thoughts that don’t have words to express them. I’m doing my best just to write this and saying to myself, “Okay, okay, you got this.” I want to try writing poetry.

Glass out the window. Cold flakes yet to hail. I really think I’m too lost for this. It’s all garble. Nothing that makes sense comes out. All I can keep saying is ‘oh god, oh god’ and marvel at how my fingers feel.

My mind isn’t putting together what is spatially available to my body. I thought in my head that there was fruit in the fridge at home. I reached out in the present world where I’m just sitting in a bus and I tried to take the fruit out of my fridge. It seemed perfectly reasonable to me that I could reach out and grab something that wasn’t there. Everyone on this bus is thinking the same thing. It’s like we all share the same mind.

I want to take mental snapshots, to remember this somehow. The height of my life. I think the same thing every time. But eventually I forget and go back to living normally.

I feel the soreness in my brain like a muscle tired after a workout.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Fall leaves

Sitting on the porch swing in Denver looking out at the trees. Lake asks me, “Do the trees change color in California?”

I think about it. “I don’t know. Not the redwoods, I don’t think.”

“Well, what makes them change?” Krys asks.

“I think it’s them dying. The chlorophyl that gives them life goes away and the green color fades.”

I look at a tree across the street. It’s October and the leaves are shades of green, orange, and yellow. It’s like an aging population. One branch has green leaves that are all young—it’s a school of youths and no elders. Another branch on the outer edge has mostly orange members—these are middle-aged citizens that think back to their own youth in the spring months. And the yellow leaves, towards the end of their lives, looking at the ground beneath and preparing for their Fall.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Frictions

Frictions define me. In the smoothness I hurtle fast along, not noticing much. It is in the transitions—changes in direction, slowing or speeding up the pace, transporting to somewhere or something else. This is where the friction comes from. Travel is never instantaneous. And I can never stay doing one thing in one place forever, so the frictions are inevitable.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

Kansan identity

Growing up, it was all about where you were from. Your friends, your tastes for food, your sports teams, your religion. Everything was largely homogenous with the people you grew up with.

Now that I’m grown up and out into the world, people ask me questions about who I am and what I like and where I’m from and I’m less sure of how to answer. I try to talk to any of my experiences based on I’m with and what they’re most familiar with.

So much chaos inside my soul, had I not been born into the basic, safe life of the plains and homogeneity, I might have lost it too soon. With my Kansan base, I can lose it carefully, consistently, and still always return afterwards to a static set of rules and sense of identity, then set up to take off again.

Posted on October 15, 2018October 15, 2018 by Cole

Plane crash

Sometimes I sleep soundly on a plane ride, when I’m all too comfortable to die. Otherwise I worry about a crash, of course, as all people do. I can’t sleep and I can’t read, so I just sit there and wait for time to move slower than usual, jumping at any turbulence and watching nervously out the windows as the wings flex in the wind.

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Cole

A sublime physical world

Carved into the hillside hauled down from the horizon where a point of eyes meeting sky ignores the sweat on my brow long enough to make progress that goes unnoticed save focus on the presents that were passing, though the passage itself made no difference to the hike ahead, carrying us along inside a sublime physical world.

Posted on October 7, 2018 by Cole

Hiking poem

Trails cut into the hillside like scars;
looking out at the open ocean
I’m not sure which side is the sky.

Posted on October 7, 2018 by Cole

Spending winter break at university

I do my breaks alone. I travel to universities in the Midwest and rent a dorm room in the empty halls and take my showers in the community bathroom. They both rushed to tell me that I could spend the holiday break with their families. So I had to politely decline and tell them about how I actually enjoyed it. Something from my old school days is still hidden there, something scholastic and nostalgic. I sit at an old mass-produced wooden desk on a worn-out desk chair with a red wool cushion. There’s nothing on top of the desk except a book and a notepad under yellow light. It gets spooky at night, something about a place where normally so many people are but then nobody is. It reminds me of the Thanksgiving I spent alone in my dorm room during college. I was scared to get out of my bed at night and walk down the long empty hallways alone.

Posted on October 4, 2018 by Cole

Talking to trees

I assume she has her reason for not wanting to look, just like the rest of the natural world has theirs. I imagine a tree with his branch arms crossed, emotional, with his back turned to the trail, refusing to acknowledge passersby like us, who hike the trail looking at our feet, like guests at a party who fail to find and greet the host and express their gratitude.

I imagine a world not unlike the fairytales where our dialogue is not only just among ourselves but also with the rest of lifeforms and even with inanimate objects like teapots and candlesticks. Otherwise we are closed off from the world that’s always trying to tell us something.

Posted on October 4, 2018 by Cole

Travel sickness

I travel far away and forget who I am so that when I return I don’t remember what to do. I feel that I belong nowhere anymore and don’t know whether to spend energy remembering who I was or to just set off again and keep forgetting, letting what happens happen and not worrying about it.

Posted on October 3, 2018 by Cole

Nonstop poetry

Poems have filled my head ever since my trip by the river with Ford. Like all the words in the world were held in a jar and that jar were turned upside down into my sleeping mind, so I wake up in the middle of the night with all this out-of-order nonsense that I can’t help but think sounds important so I have to get out of bed and write it down.

This is the third night this has happened. I hope it doesn’t stop for another week or so, until the whole jar is emptied, even though my mind spills over already and what’s in my mind tonight displaces what was there the night before. I like to have this non-stagnant flow. It gives me a sense of freedom and creation.

Posted on September 21, 2018 by Cole

After the trip

After the trip, everything is refreshed and new. I pick up objects that feel like I’ve never felt before even though it’s the oatmeal container that I’ve grabbed every morning for a year. Even my job is exciting and rewarding in ways that I’ve forgotten. Just the ability to speak and interact with such beautiful people, I’m so thankful for.

Posted on September 21, 2018 by Cole

Glass sand

Little did I know that the walk wouldn’t be so long if the glass hadn’t shattered all over the desert sand so that you couldn’t step anywhere barefoot without knowing what might cut you, so floating down the river was our only choice.

Posted on September 20, 2018 by Cole

Mind travel

The whole travel home I feel like my body knew the way and carried itself while my mind traveled elsewhere—home with other travelers leaving the airport, into empty crumpled snack bags on the plane, in the silence in between jet engines, hoping there was water still in my cup. Now I’m home and wonder how I got here, my body sitting on my bed that it missed and my mind in so many other places.

Posted on September 20, 2018 by Cole

Driving down the road

Waxed wheels on lighted asphalt just waiting to rip a tread in the dashed lines off to a point in the dark pinched distance where other racers wait saying, “Come on, catch up.”

Grip the steering wheel, but not too tight. You can’t let them know you’re trying. Lean back and careen into the dark night.

Posted on September 20, 2018 by Cole

New billboards

Advertising billboards and nightlight street signs.
A return to the city and all the buildings that look like new.
A shower and a clean return to routine.

Slipping back into what I’ve done
to figure out what I haven’t still,
then I’ll take a car back to the airport again
and the billboards will say something new.

Posted on September 20, 2018 by Cole

What a full three days feels like

I have no concept of how much time has passed on this vacation. I think, how else have I spent three days before? So many threes, not so full as these past three.

Posted on September 19, 2018 by Cole

Ego death by travel

You strip away everything external about you—leave the town where you grew up, make new friends other than your classmates and workmates, sweat or freeze in a new climate, see new scenery, grow your hair out, wear different clothes, and speak another language.

All of a sudden, one night in some far-off country you’ll get back from the bars and look yourself in the mirror in your dingy hotel room with a roof that leaks and say, who am I? And after a brief period of panic, you’ll discover that there’s something buried deeper that’s been there all along but you had to sift through all the muck. And what you find there, deep inside, that’s you.

Posted on July 30, 2018 by Cole

a daydream journal