These are my last eighty something hours in California. I'm moving from the former lands of the coastal Miwoks and the Ohlone to the ancient stomping grounds of the Timucua and the Potano. After looking west into the ocean's pregnant silence for the last three years, I'm turning back to the east. the dirty south, to be exact. It's gonna happen in a blur, and it goes something like this:
hardpan cracked earth to sage hills and mesas to hesitantly rolling land on down to the dank mud of the mississip straight on to the riverine paradise of the southern toes of the appalachians settling into the coastal plain sands and the marsh swamp estuaries.
Then my perpetual culture shock will turn inward and eat itself like a confused but decidedly limber ouroboros. Because he can.
So here's what it looks like when it moves.
Awe is the interiority of these mists. They're metaphors for each other, and also pointing to something unseen. That'd be mystery.