Summer...

I know I've said this before... nothing has changed about my summers, what I want to say..or how I want to say it...

Words are the emmisarys...of what Im thinking...  my ambassadors..

The relay what I see impart what I know...

I want the words to roll across the pages like the leading edge of a monsoon.... I want the reader to taste it, feel the heat an the air getting thick.. then know that moment when you realize..this thing in front of you has worn down mountians gouged out canyons and was here before anything was even alive..and will be here after were all gone...

I want them to be a true representation of the world... summer heat winter cold... and things we can know about the unknowable.... I know I drift and themes recur..so do dreams...

Some dreams are old and call out to be recognised..  especially in the desert..

It  comes from years of watching dust devils in the summer and remembering the sight of Dervishes spinning and turning, chanting prays..

Bring those two thoughts together and try to sound normal......

I have places I go... where I can see the valley floor and watch the dust devils moving back and forth according to whatever laws govern them..

Your hear the wind in the chappral whispering and moaning like a chanting dervish as the column passes....

Its a summer thing... 120+ in the shade and nothing moves except the whirlwinds...

And it is what it is..

Theres more.... velvety blackness.... coyotes howling and sobbing.. shreiking.. screaming. yipping madness..

The scent of clean sweat.. the salt scent of the primal seas..... the irony of making that connection as the you drink and rivulets instantly run down your back....

Ahhh.. some days... I watch the shadows as the sun rises long dark fingers of shadow releasing their grip on the world...slowly retreating...The sun clocks throught the sky... time passes and the fingers reaching out again....slowly claiming the day...

The desert floor an ocean that died eaons ago.... extinct volcanos rising up...and my hiding spot far from the habitations of men....

It puts things in perspective to sit and watch... to measure the day by shadows and have a mountian for a sundial..

All of which is deeply ironic to me...

I read a story written in stone.... not on tablets.... but none the less written by the same hand... continents drift.. mountians rise and fall civilizations die and are lost....

What really matters....... what really lasts..

My daughters scent... and Leighs laugh... that I be me only....

How hard is it to stand fast for the blink of an eye and then gone..
What do I care what anyone thinks..and how long will it last....

Its my world...my life and she is my friend