A fine layer of ash now sits on everything like snow. Lumps of gray against the black in the remaining light jut out against the otherwise empty landscape. The light has gotten dimmer since the beginning. I can't quite tell where the light comes from. Somehow there is always enough to see a dozen feet or so ahead....and then black. From time to time the gray lumps turn out to still be alive. Not quite asleep yet. Sometimes the cold has taken them and they lie there: empty. They often look as if they tried to pull the ash over themselves, like a blanket, to find some measure of warmth. When I find them like this, they are usually with others. Others who forgot or never remembered in the first place where they needed to go. All of them huddled up in this place. Going nowhere together. From time to time I see one or two who have not given in to the cold. Walking or limping about as best they can.....most say they are headed upwards...towards the sunlight. I have not decided to help anyone remember yet.....I feel like I have made it this far not because I remember....that's easy. I know. I understand. I dont always know what it is I understand....but I know this nonetheless: The sun is not the answer. It is the sea.

I once stood on the edge of a daydream...waiting for my wings. Now I stand at the edge of the darkness: choosing to be free.

I wont be in this shifting darkness much longer. I can almost smell the salt on the air. Feel the water in my lungs. I'm coming.

-- I am afraid of the light --

We set out from home early in the year.
Where inland frost still lay on the remaining leaves and forming buds of the foothills.
Low among the boles we walked the path set forth by the bodies above us.
Slick-oil mud from the years melting gripping onto our feet like the hands of death.
Our road was a slow road.

We have learned in our travels.
Sometimes you have steady yourself.
Using your hands works best.
At the time of our departure we didn’t even see the shoreline we were rippling towards,
Ever increasing in speed.
Down the hills into the low country.
Brush and sage.

Heat.
Heat makes me tired.
Makes me forget, makes me not feel alive.

Slickskin dizzies whirl me about stumbling sometimes.
It’s hard to find our way when we are always scanning the ground in front of our feet.
Assuring ourselves that the path remains.
Light and dusty and alone we walked and walked and walked.

The smell of salt was not yet detectable on the air.
We were still a we and not an everything.
Still walking a path with no one to tread on us.

Your fingers form fjords
Seeking sunstained seas
and seakissed skies abound
around your little fjords

dont wonder
as you slip into the heavens



everything is as it should be

"He was wearing a Canadian tuxedo. He shook my hand, the smell of juniper peeking out from behind shrinking teeth. My brain took a dive and my stomach rose to meet it as I realized that this was my future. Front and center in a redneck Rick Astley video. I've got to get out of this town."

---

So I think I have decided to start posting some of my writing blurbs and whatnot here. Hopefully just the good stuff though. Anyway, this one is new, but I will probably post some old stuff in a few minutes.