F.W.1

I think therefore I am. Rubbish. I feel ... i taste ... i smell ... i feel. The numbness of my hands spreads through my wrists and threatens the bones beneath. This is upsetting because when I feel the cold in my bones, I won't be warm for hours. No amount of furnaces, fires or blankets can cure me. Only time.

When or where or with whom will we finally wash ourselves free of the wilderness through which we wander?

Whose violin will call to us ... guide us ... lead us through the fog? The elements conspire both for our triumphant joy and ultimate undoing.

Rumbling roar, creaking door, flashing light, wailing scream. Up tempo, quickly jump, turn left, turn right, off we go. Round the bend, hold the turn, hit the horn, is this the end?

s l o

The smears upon the windshield are made of snow and road-grime and too much salt and sand. Its gritty texture will not easily wipe away, and the glare from their headlights casts strange shadows on the scene.

It came to my attention that a lot of the things I want/need to do are not being accomplished. Writing them down might help. And not electronically. My old friends, ink and paper are better suited. And they are going to go in a public place. In many public places. Where people can see them and make whitty, smartass comments about how little progress I am making.

I haven't really been here before - or I have, but I never had the desire to press any further. I've reached the tattered edges of the map that is my limited experience, but I still bring the yellowed chart close to my face and search it for wisdom in the dimming light. My eyes strain for some last clue - another centimeter of reassurance that the upcoming turn is the right one and I am still on course.

My compass is still good, I have the Standard - I know against what to measure my direction. Maybe that is all I need - it must be, and the sounding boards that are my trusted confidants.

Muse

Bentleys and bmw's, volkswagons and minivans, hippies and hemp, old folks and their dogs - the people are much louder then the dogs who don't bark when they outnumber us. Marymoor park in the fall, the sky a classic northwest gray, the wind slow but still biting. Traffic annoying until I think of all the lives it represents. An eclectic melding of people, a clash of culture and humanity. I like that the traffic jam is lined with trees so it feels like three thousand and seven people are on a nature walk and taking a collective breath before we gather up our kinetic energy and continue on the trail. Skyscrapers rising from mountain ranges, industry through the mist, blessed water just on the other side of a famous market. Orange coveralls shout and laugh and flying fish delight tourists and children and I am delighted, but I am not a tourist. A Porsche at a highschool game, a homeless woman tells me what she will have for lunch and this new, little condo cost more then that familiar house. Sweaters and cartigans, trenchcoats and fedoras, umbrellas and golashes. Perfectly unshaven with an italian name finds his way, goose down vest paddles a kayak to certain peace.

Waking up to windstorms and soaked earth, loving the feeling of a fireplace on my toes. Savoring the smell of gingerbread and soup and the sounds of piano. Wishing for someone to climb a tree with.