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-----Often times my mind is filled with verbal garbage. It festers and stinks, beneath the screeches of the shitting gulls, beside the river of my soul, and then it overflows. Cascades of fetid mire, the disposable diapers of post-modern ideology, the rancid carcasses of myriad dreams, all slide down into those clear and laughing waters to feed the new life which swirls in the bottom mud:
Move It is time to go south, beyond the long line and into tomorrow. It is time to go to Oz. It is time to go where the bears are grey and stoned rather than brown and ferocious, where the water's warm and takes its blue from the sky rather than the dust of mountains ground down by ice, where the air is suffused with eucalyptus rather than the dust of those ground down mountains, where the sky can be seen rather than more mountains waiting to be ground down. Long have I lived in this wilderness where among the raging rivers the ribbons of roads are few. But even here I have watched as progress takes its toll. The independence of people and communities is sacrificed to the ease of travel and centralized supply. Farms are abandoned because food from a thousand miles away costs less. Family businesses collapse before the glacier of modern commerce and are replaced by seasonal tourist shops with all the charm of a room full of clones. I am growing old. My bones are getting cold. I crave a hot sun high in the sky and warm nights thick with strange stars where these eyes can wander seeking suprises. And the ocean, great salty waves which have traveled myriad leagues and are warm like a bath, swooshing over squeeky sand beaches to caress these aching toes. A change from these dismal fjords full of icewater and spawning chilly drizzle. A change from the moaning winter wind which cracks the trees and turns even the raging rivers into merciless rocks. I do not think I am going to paradise. After all, it is said that hell is warm. No place is without its problems and everywhere one must work to gain their sustainence. I go to a land of spiders and snakes with fangs dribbling some of the most toxic goop in the bios. Kmart has already arrived on those shores. The fishbones of TV antennas stick in the throat of the sky. The many roads are clogged with the bleatings and skiddings of autos. I will be even farther from Paris. Ah, but the beer... . Outside my windows an August storm pushes the brief leaves around. In days I must return to my usual dull labors. There is still much to do before the move can be accomplished and then the horror show of packing. I never much cared for baseball, perhaps I will find a certain charm in cricket?
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