I scrambled through the canyon for hours. Canyons are peculiar places because although they feel expansive and generous they constrict you and direct your movements towards the path before you. I followed the switchbacks towards the plateau and once there, rejoiced. In the midst of my delighting, I was nearly pitched into a shrub by wind of enormous strength. It is possible to spend hours in a canyon and not be aware that above you the wind is frantic and strong. This wind, the wind of high places, is a grand thing. It frolicked around my calves and then swung itself into my gut. I threw up my arms and embraced the wind, and then began the descent.
1: I am falling apart at four points. Joints, to be exact. The very thing of holding and togetherness. Two shoulders, two hips.
4: Blues chords can stitch my flesh into wholeness.
I’ve been searching for substance. I’ve been digging and drawing and sculpting and walking and nothing feels like it is my home. The bass runs up and down my spine. I am hungry for something that speaks with a loud voice. I am ravenous.