House of Cards.
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The sun is always rising. Last night I was greated like an old friend by someone who, really, should have been a stranger. An aquaintance. Things are different when you only know so many people. Things are different when you've shared a tent. Who knew four woven walls could change so much.
It's strange how one person can change a group so much or so little. The arrival of new faces always sends me soaring. The return of old faces is always oh so centering. It's strange to think that after the weekend we're heading towards winter again. The ball has only just started rolling.
Last night Walker and I cooked asparagus, mashed potatoes, vegetable stirfry, salad, and steak. You think living in a tent would present a lot of challenges, but strangely it's freeing. It comes down to you and the essentials.
I finally got a library card yesterday. $20. And I rented two books. The one book I just started is sickly disturbing memoir about an obsessive father. Check it out: House Rules by Rachel Sontag.
Yesterday I walked through a forest that has been talking to itself for longer than I or more parents or my grandparents have been alive. Roots run like secrets across the floor stretching out to say "hello, I'm here, I miss you." Phone conversations to the other side of the forest are wired in easily. It's never been as easy to send a fax from here to there. Your arms are all branches and you've never looked so green.
Out here, the burning embers of a fire are the only television you'll ever need. The lack of electricity is dazzling. Do you remember when every falling star was an omen? Now we can't even see the sky. The sun burns slowly illumanating every corner of night. In the city, the sun sets and gives birth to the artificial glow of streetlights and headlights and --- the whole world is drowning out the stars.
I'm alive and well. The glow of faces by the fire never made me feel so warm.
It's strange how one person can change a group so much or so little. The arrival of new faces always sends me soaring. The return of old faces is always oh so centering. It's strange to think that after the weekend we're heading towards winter again. The ball has only just started rolling.
Last night Walker and I cooked asparagus, mashed potatoes, vegetable stirfry, salad, and steak. You think living in a tent would present a lot of challenges, but strangely it's freeing. It comes down to you and the essentials.
I finally got a library card yesterday. $20. And I rented two books. The one book I just started is sickly disturbing memoir about an obsessive father. Check it out: House Rules by Rachel Sontag.
Yesterday I walked through a forest that has been talking to itself for longer than I or more parents or my grandparents have been alive. Roots run like secrets across the floor stretching out to say "hello, I'm here, I miss you." Phone conversations to the other side of the forest are wired in easily. It's never been as easy to send a fax from here to there. Your arms are all branches and you've never looked so green.
Out here, the burning embers of a fire are the only television you'll ever need. The lack of electricity is dazzling. Do you remember when every falling star was an omen? Now we can't even see the sky. The sun burns slowly illumanating every corner of night. In the city, the sun sets and gives birth to the artificial glow of streetlights and headlights and --- the whole world is drowning out the stars.
I'm alive and well. The glow of faces by the fire never made me feel so warm.
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