Emily’s Rock

I wish I could translate all of this, between dreams and ancient energies of the landscape, between the peaceful restlessness of this man I love, between my homesick longing for Soda Creek Ridge and the more recent grab and haunt by the Bend area…

Cranes and curses. Thunderbirds and falcons. Floods and hail. Windstorms and other dimensions. Initiation rites and rivers. Mountains and valleys. Clouds that move too fast. Turtles, effigy mounds, herons, and egrets. Skies that seem eerily dark in the day and eerily light at night.

Virtually unable to stay put in the old world, I keep thinking, “That place doesn’t exist anymore. I can never go back.”

I wander along the river, trying to keep an overall awareness of the landscape, half looking for her signature, but not expecting it.

Machine elves, time, black-ops…

There is this knowing that the maps never really matter at all. It was a very, very primitive means of trying to capture the essence of the sacred geography. The world is blue and white and brown and green, a crazy marble from above. And as I come crashing in, Mt. Shasta is a blue-violet pulsating beacon. The rivers throb in fuchsia.

I don’t care anymore, because that place before no longer exists, and I can’t help it if no one else  understands. I cannot plan ahead. I cannot be rational about money. I can barely be rational about science or the laws of physics. Every micro decision I make is bumping me on to a different micro timeline. I timeline jump hundreds of times a day. Some good the maps would have done in the chaotic node. I try to keep my feet toward the center of the Earth, my body in the eye of the storm, my heart aligned with the galactic center, and in my crown, the energies of the desired outcome. Spinning, and spinning, and spinning.

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