Order: Scorpiones

Found this beautiful specimen in the fishtank filling bucket in the garage. First wild one I'd come across since moving away from West Sonoma Co. The boy and I basked in the glow of the poison sac for a good while before letting her go at the end of our yard. Scorpions have occupied a special place in my mind since early childhood, first seen in movies, then dreams, pet stores, dead on the floor of my Bohemian Highway room, then crawling across my walls, fighting with our cats, sleeping in the collars of my freshly laundered shirts, and so on, from fear to love & admiration. I've missed them these past 18 years.  

The Life That Ate Me

Too much. Much too much I bellow, silent in unsteady freefall flux. Too much pressure, too much information, too far behind in so many ways. Anxiety comes with this, but not in direct proportion. Reactions shape-shift in ways I can't figure, obscured, with only occasional tangiblity.

Light beckons at the ends of countless tunnels, ever distant, tantalizing, bedecked in promises of attainablity. I overthink, underact, put too much stock in pointless comparisons and measurements. The light remains buried deep within while the dream world maze in front of my eyes persists.

For everyone else that feels their heart rates rise as the traffic comes to a crawl, while clocks tick past appointed meeting times, I hope we see through it, get in touch, stay present for each days pinnacles, live lives more classic than classic movies, poignant as mind opening novels, masterpiece lives like hand-hewn sculptures against sunrise clouds. A bike ride, a swim, a lingering perusal of the clouds might do it; then work on with unshakable joy and love. Advice for myself, sounding almost doable, but I sit here trapped under a mountain, unable to move a muscle, peace of mind far away, fleeting, and drowned in discomforted heartbeats. This is the point in the writing process when dreams of Helen Keller's mindstate take to the wing like bats at dusk. They tell me I should stop now, kick the tar out of the KFUCK radio DJ (my thinking), and work on that list of crap to do. Even the fear of fear itself must someday go.

Turned Out to be Another Train

The boy impressed me with this one, both with the final product as well as the artistic process. He drew it just before bed, knowing he had limited time, with the utmost attention, as I prepared his bed and room for sleeping. To me it seemed sad, industrial, and three dimensional, although fatherly love adds to it for sure (I didn't know what it was, thought maybe a shadow frog). A couple days later, while reviewing my photos, he told me that it was a train. I feel blind and stupid now, maybe getting old, better check for pride, the surest sign.

Last Sunday night he squeezed in between Ma Kettle & me & Sissie and admonished "You are a great family". Where does he get this stuff? Yeah, probably TV or books, like so many others. He's been putting on shadow puppet shows ever since we saw a really cool one over at Stormy and Elisa's house Labor Day weekend. He uses these really bright solar path lights that he figured out how to remove the covers from. I showed him my repertoire of a rabbit, a dog, and a squid the other night and he does a similar routine, but still hasn't got the distance to size ratio deal with shadows. The shadow knows.  

Nose Cone Knows

Oh yeah, that rocket makes dreams & visions, velocity stomach butterflies, and the air of danger. Seth built it, with some help from his daughter and I don't know who else. Just look at the nose cone! Parachutes and everything but live cargo, expected to reach 5,000' and 375-mph. Next launch: Black Rock Desert, NV, this month, and I'm scheming to attend. Yup, this rocket has true magnetism, the distribution of Gravity's Rainbow (read ultra-condensed version here), unavoidable.  

Forest Comfort

"She found out, presently, that going into the forest was a source of comfort. When there seemed no comfort she went to the lonely solitude of trees and brush, of green coverts and fragrant wild dells, and always she was soothed, sustained. She could not understand why, but it was so. She began to prolong the hours spent in the woods, under a looming canyon wall, or beside a densely foliaged gorge from which floated up the drowsy murmur of a stream. All that the wild forest land consisted of passed into her innermost being. She sensed that the very ground she trod was full of graves of races of human beings who had lived and fought there, suffered in their blindness and ignorance, loved and reared their young, and had grown old and died. No trace left! No more than autumn leaves! It seemed to be this lesson of nature that gradually came to her. Thereafter she went to the woods early in the mornings as well as the afternoons, and finally she had the courage to go at night."

--excerpt from "Under the Tonto Rim" by Zane Grey

Yes, to go at night, howling inside my mind but all ears outside with the crickets, does suggest a plan. The moon approaches fullness and my muscles twitch and twitter, ready for the transformation. I love the woods at night, know I need more of that sound & energy. The brightness of the night sky excites me past my bedtime, sings that siren song. Zane sure did know what he wrote about. I can tell because I get that eery feeling that we both lived it, universally personal and invigorating. Night hiking anyone? Maybe next full moon, the harvest moon. That one got me all revved up and transformed last Ocotober, and that's how traditions, and, um, full moon rituals, get started. So it's set, Friday October 6th we'll hike from my house to the ridge and back in the light of the harvest moon, unless you have a better plan....

Landfills & Reservoirs

Took the son to the landfill to say goodbye to some assorted waste on Saturday. Took him to San Pablo reservoir to break in his new fishing pole on Monday. Looking at it through his eyes, both events were solid fun, neither better than the other, and I feel it that way too, in retrospect.

The thrill of riding in the front seat together, which we only get to do in the ancient pick-up, would make any fool smile. For $22/cubic yard the West Contra Costa County Landfill sports stunning bay views, seagull watching (he kept calling them eagles, easy mistake to make), mild offroading fun, and people/vehicle watching as good as any in San Francisco. Unlike my childhood dump, where I recall my first prize scored for braving the jolly roger bulldozer was a globe with only a minor amount of animal feces on it, children are remanded to the vehicle. I cleaned that globe up and had it for years.

The reservoir might have stood out more if we'd caught any fish, besides, three may be a bit young for true fishing, a sport of patience, sharp barbed hooks, live worm impalation, mud, and lead weights. All the same, we did it, and it brings a tear to my eye to picture us out there on the edge of the water, eyes on bobbers, eating the picnic lunch packed by Mama Bear. As I write of it now I realize that it was the first time since I was a kid that I went fishing with someone less experienced than myself. While the experience did not leave me aching for more, I have not stopped scheming about how I could catch fish since then. Different baits, hooks, times of day, fishing spots, use of chum, yes I'm glad we went.