She Said Circle Pit
[Transcribed from notes taken on napkins in the middle of august]
There has been a spirit of strength that has moved its way into my
forearms. All the humming has reduced into a single refracting point
(what Borges calls the Aleph), and rests inside the coffee of the
morning, and the days work always ahead. The sun has come into its
own, to model this illumination.
We have started calling my brother Lepur, from his weekend at the lake
which has sewn a layer of red buttons onto his skin. He stomped
around the house today yelling at the television as the Americans lost
their soccer game. I can not lie, I will get drawn into these things
on short notice, and become an armchair expert overnight. Just not
this one.
Friday night I spend on the front porch with the rest of the land crew
we have hired. They play mandolins and hammer dulcimers. Their wives
make beercan chicken and thick cut cabbage for the coleslaw. We drink
out of a Carlo Rossi bottle with its label peeled off and filled up
with the clear moonshine. Still there is nothing that can knock me
down. For the moment my shoulders are sturdy as a Buffalo.
On Saturday morning the Amish come down from Pennsylvania and sell
their wares. Invariably I buy little jars of apple butter, sealed
honey combs, and sides of pork. (which I keep telling myself I am
going to stop eating.) Bobby Weaver has convinced me that its
important to go with him in the fall to Atlanta, where the Shaman
gather twice a year to preform ayahuasca ceremonies. He went on a
diet of raw meat, nuts and fruit for the big pow-wow this spring and
his polyester wranglers fit high and tight over his bony ass now. I
figure if I am going to break my mind, I might as well remake my body
in preparation. Still pork and butter are strictly prohibited, and I
just dont see myself making it through breakfast without my old
friends. Alright enough. Time to head outside my own stomach.
There has been a spirit of strength that has moved its way into my
forearms. All the humming has reduced into a single refracting point
(what Borges calls the Aleph), and rests inside the coffee of the
morning, and the days work always ahead. The sun has come into its
own, to model this illumination.
We have started calling my brother Lepur, from his weekend at the lake
which has sewn a layer of red buttons onto his skin. He stomped
around the house today yelling at the television as the Americans lost
their soccer game. I can not lie, I will get drawn into these things
on short notice, and become an armchair expert overnight. Just not
this one.
Friday night I spend on the front porch with the rest of the land crew
we have hired. They play mandolins and hammer dulcimers. Their wives
make beercan chicken and thick cut cabbage for the coleslaw. We drink
out of a Carlo Rossi bottle with its label peeled off and filled up
with the clear moonshine. Still there is nothing that can knock me
down. For the moment my shoulders are sturdy as a Buffalo.
On Saturday morning the Amish come down from Pennsylvania and sell
their wares. Invariably I buy little jars of apple butter, sealed
honey combs, and sides of pork. (which I keep telling myself I am
going to stop eating.) Bobby Weaver has convinced me that its
important to go with him in the fall to Atlanta, where the Shaman
gather twice a year to preform ayahuasca ceremonies. He went on a
diet of raw meat, nuts and fruit for the big pow-wow this spring and
his polyester wranglers fit high and tight over his bony ass now. I
figure if I am going to break my mind, I might as well remake my body
in preparation. Still pork and butter are strictly prohibited, and I
just dont see myself making it through breakfast without my old
friends. Alright enough. Time to head outside my own stomach.