we judge everything

turn your back to the future~
the future isn't within city walls
i love being awake and out on the world surface with feet~ before everyone ~ human

i stare at wake / i stay awake
the city fades into the cold /cloud cover
toward adventure~ this little lady pulled up with kids and mom driving. . . yeah . . . i love Adventurewagons / on actual adventures

i turn around and see a log jam wonderland and the glory of Rocky with a fire and campsite
we paddle out ~

we paddle out to face, as i crest the shore pound /a huge sea lion killing a giant salmon, slapping it back and forth smacked onto the water with blood and guts flying~ staring me down, i paddle away from the horror
there are no shoulders to these waves, just a cold lust
we spend hours of our lives staring at waves as they approach us

we judge them
a left ? a right ? a curtain wall of a black closeout
mandatory surfboards in the wilderness shot
black sands and pure white high tide doom

the cold and the wet greet us to a spring flat fling
wienie bake w/ campfire tea
this is what a clear cut looks like

those mounds of scrap wood and brush / will be torched in November of some year
old stumps make you cry as you drive home
this clear cut is ten years old ~
this is what the forests of today look like
loggers and their rock monuments / usually much larger
you could just see the beauty of the west / and not document the damage
heavy pewter sky / as visiting a graveyard / battlefield / massacre

found this Lloyd Kahn book he surfs and builds shelter / wrote Shelter in the sixties / drives around taking pictures of beautiful hand made homes and sheds / cottages and structures built by artists / craftsmen

the price~ his books, including Shelter and Home Work are marvels / buy one for your mom or dad for their birthday or for yourself
on the ferry i want to launch one of these ~ and leap off the deck into the sound

the city isn't home

but i am


1 comment:

  1. Speaking of stumps---in Ireland they have these fabulous round towers (where the monks used to hide out when the Vikings came by) and I've visited many of them. Some are in great shape; some not. The remains of the ones that have fallen down are usually about 10 or 12 feet high with weeds all around. The Irish call them Stumps. I like that. Although, of course, it's sad.



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