This was 1 month, 5 days ago

Out here, that feeling again. The elements of the world are simple: sun, water, sand, some grasses, some plants, many birds.

This is all there is, in may ways. This is what matters. This is what a life is made out of.

This is a missive from this present to your present. I just dipped into the internet a bit, and it is chaotic, mind-bending, ugly. Instead, out here, the world is clear, crisp. The priorities of a life hold shape. This is what a life is made out of.

I don't expect these words to make any sense to you. I pull up the net from the ocean, and pour it into your arms. Your arms get wet. Some puddles on the ground. But that's it. The net became the least wet thing (in the ocean) to the most wet thing (in the home).

Right now, these words are the least wet thing. I am trying to soak them up. Nothing may emerge across this transition.

What is clear is clear.


oh, oh, oh. oh I am holding this magic. oh I am pouring. oh I am vessel. oh I am lightning rod. sometimes here I am connected to all of these other moments that I have been more and less than a human; when my feet have blended into the ground, when I have been part of this world, when I am just an animal, just another animal, needing water and food and sun and sleep. here I am, here here here.

sometimes I get to these places and know that these are the answers. the answers are to be found here; not elsewhere. if they are to be found in books, it is books in a sun-lit room. if they are to be found in people, it is in people who can also be quiet, can listen to the world, who can open themselves up for a moment in channel and be present for all that is present.

the answer is so simple! it is to return. each glass of water an amazement in living. I remember, as a kid, talking to another kid who drank mostly soda. he didn't like the taste of water, he said. he said it didn't taste good. it didn't taste good! how was this possible? is this america, I thought?

what is at stake?

I love this question. what is at stake? somehow it feels like it peels open the world for me, it allows me to understand, for a moment, my death; how I will die, soon, here, there, whenever.


I sit here, off the coast of provincetown, near the ocean. it is impossibly still, and impossibly quiet, here. five and a half hours left until a deadline that represent a kind of hope for the future. part of the journey was the hope we hoped along the way, I say, a task of hoping.