A journey to sleep...

I, am tired. Stress the space between the syllables, the pause before enunciation, feel the weight of articulation. There is a weariness which transcends sleep...and it is intimate, abiding in the soul like the spirit of some heathen apparition.

The man in front of me works with well measured movements. Each step calculated to maximize productivity. The check in desk at the airport opens in four hours, four hours to wax the floor, four hours to disassemble and reassemble the poles and ropes all the while dodging pedestrians who heedlessly walk in the way. Each individual has a role to fill in the operation of the leviathan. The smoothness of the operation dependent on the calculus of uniformity. Betrayed autonomy wears on man, having ones actions mandated by the needs of a personless abstraction undefinable erodes strength.

Waking in those predawn hours, choking back autonomy, being sure to be ready for the day or days to follow for it was anyones guess when we would again see home all for the profit of a few men. The operations board dictated destination it was our life, subject to change at the whim of the salesman, company, or unforeseen circumstance. Daily we would clock in and look to the board sacrificing our hours, relationships as if they were doves and the board the alter. Looking to the workers in any industry I see the same sacrifice, the same cost benefit analysis. Life then becomes a conflict, a conflict between the non physicals needs of the human and the need to provide home and food. Some navigate this chasm effortlessly. Others balk and refuse to give to pressure. Those who refuse conformity can become heroes but more often then not become tragic images littering numerous and nameless sidewalks.

It has been numerous weeks since leaving the patch and now my eyes have seen I can never forget the how of industrial civilization. What remains a phantom is the why? Why we have expanded and constructed such a wasteland, why we give ourselves to consumption, and why we see the increase in mental pathologies but refuse to draw the connecting line between pathology and root cause. In bible college we were taught that context is king but in our daily analysis we refuse to contextualize.

In the past few days my nights have been spent in Portland and in the woods overlooking the Pacific. When night falls in the basement of the city I hear the bustle, the sirens, the drinkers stumbling in, and that wonderful blend of languages from Arabic, Farsi, and English. But that myth of progress that is the city can only tantalize for so long. Contrasting the nights in the city to the nights in the open brings the whole mess of civilization into focus. Hiking up to the dense forest on the coast leaving the drone of vehicle engines below the tree line I began to breathe. Despite my years of tobacco consumption I felt strong, alive, aware, unwinded. As the sun sank into the sea and darkness feel on the forest floor I made camp quickly, started a fire with ease in the dampness, smoked my pipe in the stillness, and laid out my wool blanket on the ground. Despite tree roots, cold evening air, and damp ground I slept and snored. Sleeping in the dirt brings us into communion with our beginning. If some deity did form us from the dust or if we evolved it does not matter in those moments. We are living beings, growing, decaying, going through the life cycle of all beings. Sleeping in the city, living in the city separates us from our origins.

As I nodded off to sleep on the ground I thought of that operations board...I breathed easily knowing my sacrificial doves have been returned. The next morning I woke with a rested soul.

Concerning touch....

Moving into that space between bed sheets she whispered. She demanded my stillness, demanded that for once I allow myself the experience of pure sensation. As if sensation could be divorced from thought, that one existed independent of the other. In failing

I told her we had never touched, for all the sweat and weight we have never put flesh to flesh. Without words she protested, placing fingers to lips. Standing in obstinate fashion attempting to impart the reality of pure tactile emperasism. Yet resolute in my solitude despite bruising pressure I told her of atomic fields, opposing force, and the empty space composing the illusion of solidity. How I wished that our separate electrons would explode on impact, spinning out new galaxies in chaos, creation from pressure and heat. That I hoped the remenats of our subatomic construction could reside in the nebula of cascading particles somewhere out in the vastness of the expanding cosmos, then perhaps I may feel her, know her. But here now in the illusion of flesh and otherness I could never touch her, we would always be separate bodies attempting to fill in the space between electron and nucleus, forever solitary. Weepingly resigned to solitary existence I left her, left all hope of true contact. Break us down into our elementary components fling us around a supercollider and in that catastrophic collision we could possibly know love.

exposure

This town is wind swept bleached by hundreds of days of pure sun. The buildings stand precariously on the edge of collapse giving the area an atmosphere of neglect, isolation, devolution...as if the desert wishes to incorporate these structures in a purity of wildness. Each day these structures make a stand in their isolation, in the staunch disregard to encroaching sands, even as they are swallowed. In these years of travel and observance a peculiar truth has made itself manifest. Generally the state and appearance of structures reflect the state of the individuals who abide within, have constructed, or passed through their walls.

After five hours of rough sleep, the sleep of the exhausted is seldom as deep or restful as needed, I made my way across from the hotel to a diner to read and write as long as my mental faculties could with stand the fatigue. As I sought to enclose myself in a world of concepts, reflections, contemplations etched onto paper the presence of the people broke in continually. Never have I been in a place where I am allowed the solitude I see others afforded. But no more will contempt for these interruptions hold any power.

A middle aged woman of Mexican decent began the interrogation by simply approaching and breaking into that delicate silence I was attempting to construct. After the obligatory questions of origins, occupation, and how did you, an outsider, arrive in this place she launched into a discourse of her son who is serving in the military, her dead husband, and the satisfaction at the happiness of her only child. But she seemed lost attempting to make sense of something she had and still has not been able to conceive of properly. There was a sense of her grasping at something intangible something just outside her ability to know. So she rested in the arms of a comfort constructed by her sons happiness and success...she seemed caught in the tension between her child's youthful striving for meaning and the ultimate finality of death. She like the structures surrounding this place stands on the edge of entropy. She is lonely. And the quiet unknown which seemed to shadow her is the knowledge that soon she will follow her husband, her son will follow her, and her grandchildren will follow him into that space where all striving becomes nullified. She needed to be heard, to be seen, before that firm inevitability of eternal breathlessness breaks upon her frail bones.

But is that not our collective story? Each individual seeks to be seen, known....we reach out to our parents in youth and seldom are we seen, so we reach out to gods who are either deaf, mute, blind, or nonexistent. And as that cycle of exposure and misunderstanding rolls on and breaks ceaselessly we expose ourselves to strangers in hopes that they will see us, that someone will look past themselves and see the exposed as a person, as an entity not as an object before we find ourselves silenced buried in the deep, forever unknown.

West Texas

Standing in the west Texas desert under the sweltering heat attempting to reduce the relentless sounds of our equipment and that of the drilling rig three hundred yards east so that i may hear the silence. And by silence i mean those subtle sounds of wind through mesquite, dust pelting skin, and the calls of the desert birds in their seemingly careless watch for food. Transferring to west texas from east Texas was a decision made in the subconscious. Little did I know my own thoughts before penning them on paper as a request to my superiors. Sometimes intuitive logic far exceeds the capacity of linear reasonings. When asked to explain my reasons for requesting the transfer all I could very well say was "there is nothing there..." and the response would be the same "you're damn right...".

Well, we speak in language that can be comprehended. Words are merely the symbols used to point to objects, concepts, images, and feelings. The nothingness I spoke of was the absence of cities, teeming masses of people and they understood the nothingness that I was referencing. But in truth in the absence of masses of people, cities, never ending static noise there is something...many somethings. There is the land, the creatures, the wind, the silence. I spoke of nothingness as purity they spoke of it as a void which needed filled. And in truth it is filled with weapons of war. Drilling rigs are scattered over the desert plain....the lights from their towers punctuate the night like some unholy devastation. Surely the vibration of motors and pumps keep away the creatures of the desert. We fill this arid space with moisture, pits of drilling mud, waste water, chemical compounds. There is something here of our creation and this desert war zone is the first step in the creation of cities.

But I come here to see the vastness, to taste the dust, to weep for our collective soul...as I weep now. For the more we fill this nothingness with emptiness and manifest hollowness with our creation the sooner we become abstractions losing our particularities...mirages which fade upon approach.

Machines

These nights spent is semi vigilance attending to machines droning seem lifetimes. The deep solitude of darkness is meant for only rest attending to dreams subconscious earnings suppressed in waking hours. Steadily attending to fuel, watching gauges, and the tightness of a spool of pipe vibrating along with a thousand horses changes the mental processes of the individual in attendance. In this eternal blackness the ambient phantoms of progress float on the mental landscape sculpting half truth cannons; highways paved with omissions. Modernity was an inevitability, industrialization was and is messianic in proportion...oh these half spun garments laced with illusion. But supposing this world has lost it's center would these concepts therefor hold the presence of the imago dei in the presence of such absurdity. For when lies become too tangled to unravel truth is but a knot undistinguishable. But would it be lending to much credit that these phantoms perform such immaculate conceptions in the thoughts of these men.

When touching a machine that has been operating constantly for nearly a week does it not leech into the physical being of humanity? It's resonance vibrating and altering our own? If thoughts have the power to alter the tangible tactual universe would not those objects have a similar effect on our own? These machines do as commanded operating without thought only with that tenuous precision of mechanization and while it may take a measure of thoughtfulness to command such precision it certainly does not take mindfulness. Drone for drone like begets like. Machines posses no compassion. While eating dinner someone mentioned the most recent earthquake in japan instead of a somber thought considering the pain and fear being experienced at that very present moment the general consensus with only one solitary disinter was "fuck 'em". It would seem that sympathy was not part of the gears, not intrinsic to it's own operation therefor unknown. Thoughts may as yet be unquantifiable in mass and density or measured in proportion to cause and effect but some measure of correlation does exist. These long hours lacking in quiet simplicity dealing exclusively with mechanical processes and toxic chemical compounds must hammer these monotone

notes into neuropathways molding thoughts and patterns of thought.

During those few precious months spent on the commune with little interaction outside the naturally evolved one could feel a depth and complexity transcending instrumental rational thought. As mentioned before in various conversations spending hours with fingers cultivating soil and bodies melding with snow melt infuses a natural rhythm into the our otherwise irrational movements.

It is little wonder some men become as mechanical as the machines they operate.

extraction

We don our flame retardant coveralls, hard hats, safety glasses, and steal toes. These are our uniforms, protective gear meant to stave off the heat and pressure the falling iron and the renegade forces we toil to contain, to harness. We are the foot soldiers in the war to subdue and manage the world...to bend the physical forces to human construction. Upon arrival on location the task at hand is to rig up to the well head. We hammer up pipe, make connections, raise equipment by crane hovering over the well head, that entry to the underworld. Once all the preparations, the cleaning of muskets and loading of ammunition, we are ready to make the final connection open up hell and do battle with the unseen.

There is a vast difference in the mindsets of extraction and cultivation. One feels much like nurture, partnership, communion...the other feels much like rape. While that may seem a harsh statement the similarities go much further than simple feelings. In extraction the companies use massive equipment to clear the fecund land to bare and level ground...removing all particularity from a space. At this point rigs are brought in to penetrate that which should remain unscathed to depths of astounding distance. Forcefully penetrating the crust to remove and inject with no calculation other than monetary gain and further material expansion leads to a reality which acts on those principles. The parents produce the offspring and that which is fed to the young is what the young become.

How can we expect a world of peace and compassion of mutual respect and dignity when we base our entire realities on the consumption of a "resource" produced in such a manner. Theodore Herzl said of the Jews..." we have become what the Ghettos have made us...". It is not an overstatement to say we have become what consumption has made us.

This post is stained and forced...writing is taking on a laborious nature due to the obvious time and mental constraints currently under. But if organic creation is to be done it must be done in the midst of toil and bondage. If we allow it to these constraints allow for refinement of thought and gritty truth that must accompany pure thought.

I will end this post with another quote from Mr. Herzl, for even truth can be spoken from the mouth of a monster..."No one is wealthy or powerful enough to make civilization take one retrograde step.." and he is correct it is only in the collective where the power resides.

Thoughts while in a monastery...

Early December finds me in Colorado Springs frequently visiting a Benedictine Monastery, which would be called a Convent if it were not for negative associations or an Abby if it were more theologically aligned with Rome, nestled in a grove of spindly pines on the outskirts of this sprawling city. Here the young and old devotees seek out what Plotinus once called "the flight of the alone to the Alone." The sisters here are quiet, seeking the ultimate unity collectively and deeply personally, each striving in her own way. Some stay strictly to the worn path Catholic mysticism others draw from numerous traditions. They stand in solidarity with simplicity and a modern interpretation of renunciation and self abnegation. There is a peace about this place which strikes me in the same way evening vespers stuck me in Mt. Angel on numerous occasions. I wonder if some here ever doubt there vows or at the very least the value of their vows. Or if and when they are assaulted by doubt do they find solace in the new physics...in the unified field theory or in the non duality which persists in the subatomic levels of the cosmos. If it were myself who had taken vows I would fall into a war of definitions not wanting to attribute spiritual attributes to a purely, and no less mysterious, physical reality. But in no way can anyone fault these women or their male counterparts or even their fellow contemplatives in other traditions for their vows. It is my belief they resonate with the cosmos more truly than most. Not even to mention the selflessness which comes from living in community for a lifetime.

These past several days I have been able to sit in on conversations between MIT Ph.D's, Zen Masters, Vietnam veterans, and nuns discussing the dissolution of the ego. It would seem that a constant conversation of ego reduction only serves to swell and empower what T.M. would call the false sense of self. Although I no longer claim Christianity it would seem that if one truly desired the dissolution of the ego it would be most productive to act upon the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount....a selfless less life seems better than a selfless orthodoxy.

another

Autumn has arrived south of the Mason-Dixon. The grey chill in the air reminds me of the North West. Jamaica has come and gone as has New Orleans, Morgan City, and the cotton farm. Travelers accumulate experiences like bank notes and restlessness like a genetic disorder compounding with time. Our boots were stitched from songs about highways...but highways are wearing my soles and waiting is wearing the more intimate fabric of my soul.

How does one mark the passage of a year spent in waiting? That continued birth and death of expectation...living for 365 days oscillating between promises of two weeks and the undetermined has left no other recourse but to plot onward into an increasingly hazy and obscured future. Since this time last year the country has been crossed four separate occasions for truly no other purpose other than movement, as if one could replace the movement towards goals and transatlantic life with the passage of domestic miles. Alaska is no longer that large state to the North but a place known at least on the surface and Canada has worn my boots down as well. As I contemplate those miles, encounters, and hours spent on the open road I can not find in it the vitality travel once brought. No longer can I confuse one for the other.

This years has been fraught with loss. Most recently my dearest friend has gone away to die in seclusion from cancer. All that stands in his memory left available is a rock wall built together, a zippo lighter, and at night while in bed the quiet wheeze of my lungs which was audible in his throughout the day.

...Now my departure from OR is looming once more...but the destination is yet unclear and not without it's consequences...and still I wait for the job in Tanzania to show itself real...

to hell with all of it.

the price...

nothing left...empty

another bus bound elsewhere

...back on the east coast..lost.

Leaving OR tomorrow morning. Perhaps this is wrong...

far too much...i'm holding on but i'm not sure how much longer...if November 3 comes and goes like all the other "departure dates"...i just don't know...my fingers are most definitely slipping

No longer can I wait stationary, unmoving. I spoke with the boss today and he is waiting for the word from the U.A.E as to when this month they would like him back in Dar es Salaam to complete whatever it is multi nationals need to complete. When I pressed for anything concrete he was unwilling to give a general time frame.

One of my dear friends is on a ranch in Montana and I asked if they need another hand...if they don't I leave OR and go to Seattle and then on to BC for at least a week if not more depending on funds. but it is no longer an option for me to sit and wait by the computer for an email that won't come for at least two more weeks.

life

is

lived

in

the

movement

Tonight while smoking the last of the days cigarettes George and I stood out in the yard contemplating the rotation of the universe, the solar system, and our humble planet. The conversation moved to the constant expansion of the universe...old stars dieing, new stars coming into existence...entropy seeming to exist only in the short term constantly birthing beginnings...i said "...so we breathe in the eternal...if only temporarily..." and we both sighed for the briefest of moments losing our anthropocentric egotism, our geocentric heresy caught in the sublime movements of the eternal...

at the moment when I felt i could be lifted from the perception of the finite here and now the sprinklers lifted from the ground plunging me back to the tension between my numbered days and the infinite...

My time in Silvertown is drawing to a close. Along with the completion of the wall. I placed the last stone in place yesterday morning before the fog had been chased from the hills. The wall was not merely a job it was the object into which I could pour all of my restlessness it was the object of creation something to be formed with care. Now it stands. No longer in need of care. Saturday morning I leave what has become "home" to spend a week or so with my grandparents and then to where? Africa still has the solidity of a dream.

Allowing myself one evening of self loathing, self pity, and self destruction I bought a bottle of the cheapest whiskey I could find. It didn't last a great length of time. Ten thirty found me curled up in the back yard in nothing but my undergarments, weeping, and ridding my body of the vileness recently consumed.

Early in the evening my dad inquired about a relationship and I spoke about responsibilities not ready to take on, lifestyle changes for which i'm not ready for...truth be told...that is all bullshit.

Truth is it's fear...she's what I want and I'm a damn fearful, prideful fool...

Oregon is in full bloom. Meaning the fog has descended, rain is pelting the leaves, wool socks paired with Birkenstock are in full force, and insignificant to some the average simple black birds are no longer on the wire. My fascination with migration and migratory patterns of birds is a new interest. Perhaps only from an emotional empathy concerning movement. Only a few days ago a group of some six black birds perched on the wire above the hedges and would chirp, whirl, chatter, caw, and all sorts of other avian acrobatics. Telling either of dreams or travel strategies. I prefer the former. The life expectancy of the average black bird is 20 years, a number expected to be far less. of course it's expected to be less because we as humans usually equate value and life expectancy with size. Perhaps all of this exposition on the life span of birds is pointless, mental drivel...perhaps not.

My thoughts are many....perhaps the contemplation of birds is a noble endeavor...it at least is of nature although not void of abstraction.

Tim stopped by my fathers work to have a message passed on concerning Africa...essentially "soon" was the message but still without definition. He also revealed the nature of the contract and the financial compensation will be significantly more substantial than previously thought which was already considerable for a minimalist such as myself...

yet...

perhaps in the pursuit of this dream, this life, this goal i have just made a fatal mistake. One in which I may never know the extent of the loss. Does the realization of one goal prohibit the realization of another...is it not a human gift to unify the thesis and the antithesis, to junxtapose the life of the family man and that of the wanderer...is it possible to place them so close side by side that they become entangled, intertwined in a brackish haze?