summer 2021

Was to have went for a walk. Just September, water, and 300 miles of fog, garbonzos, hammock, knocking out the carbon from a whisperlite out in some between packing out sardines, surf, and scrubbing out sock liners then wedding then October back. Last decade, that was Blue Ridge to Shenandoah for Lyme's diagnosed by bible belt tennessee white male ER doc who screamed at my gay then me a ride for 3,000 miles to run from domestic abuse and hide in the woods and play my first rpg. That same September was supposed to be me from those woods, from home to 4 weeks and reach that same play group for wedding then walk 4 weeks back for next shift. A dad dying has ways of killing plans.

When what someone dies of is something you can't even talk about. When what's because you talk about, then some stranger uses your life for their side of a popularity contest. When thinking about why you are 3000 miles from anywhere you wanna be. When the last time you used a map was to run away, so when you load up that map, your abuser's house is still marked in on that app as 'home' and would you like to go there and would you like directions and then needing to buy transportation through craigslist in that blender your mind set.

When you leave your glasses on the same stretch of nothing desert you lost them on on the way away from where you get to. When you get to your facebook-news credit-debted freeon-dependant trumper mom, when you fight against your homophobic granddad whos pouring gasoline on the ground on your mom's dirt drive saying it wont hurt nothing. When a day before and 25 feet down the drive, you and your mom found moment's commonality in the wild birds enjoying the truck tire divet filled with rain water. When the neighbors dogs are called Ronald and Reagan and shouted every night as they are called in. When you read manning marable and get excited about season 5 of scene on radio. What journal?

A hardcover. It's that 5.25"x5.25" layout i mentioned, built from boxes and obduracy. Digging ditches, keeping voice recordings of working with momma as she and I process dad's dying together apart. We hold up the same cage, we talk to clarify what goes where how and if only to get back to politics in 24 words or less and the cage falls. The cage is not a metaphor momma's a ranch. About 100 animals. 2-bed 2-bath house with 4 90lb dogs who all will kill one another if any find the same room together. So. Many. Doors. Doors're reality duct tape here. Theres no problem another door don't solve as x. I take Coursera in hopes any other world find me.

⚠️ This is a journal. If you don't have the energy to be in a private space with a person, take care of yourself, do not engage with this resource, find support and come back when you're in a better place. 

A lot of the thoughts in the notes were inspired by different maker groups orbiting itch and journalism, among them Pipe Dreams, ghost cafe in flying witch vol 3, the transformative atmosphere of mud, various hell or high class explorations, all the telepresence services with laborers whose operations data is the value, essential and essentially unstudied stratospheric life, midnight solidarity events making roadways safer for third-shift commuters, pumping water uphill with solar as energy store solution, international fresh water disputes over companies stealing a people's clouds Bye then