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Gurgle, Gurgle before/after the picture mojo gained momentum. A million inside jokes between me and my universe, like shouting at the fifteen year old driver next to me as he drives his mother's intrepid, mother riding shotgun, friends in the rear, "FETUSES SHOULD NOT DRIVE". Seriously. The dude looked like a baby. I think he needed a booster seat. How long until he's smashed driving that same car around with his little friends bitching about their parents from the backseat. I don't want to know. I shouldn't have been allowed to drive until I was eighteen. I know that. Like standing in line at the store behind an old woman, "I'll get our of your way soon, sweetie," she says. "Take your time no worries," and i meant it. Getting my stuff as she lingered a bit long right next to me, "Are you trying to steal my credit card number?" I asked in a contrived voice, "I won't live long enough to spend all of my money, let alone worry about someone else's." "I think I'll trust you." I said. And I know her daughter, and she was a little hottie waiting to bloom, the blonde, smart, pale skinned girl just waiting to shed her glasses, and me wanting to be that guy, but not doing it, the one that takes off her glasses, and saying something like, "Gosh, baby, I knew you were pretty, but WOW." Making time with her granma' and she doesn't even know it, what the fuck, selling myself for free, just giving it away, sending my love and karma into the void in the greatest inside joke of them all. Buy me a beer in heaven. But the picture mojo was strong. Pictures from the holy indian spring, supposedly with curative powers, not too far from where I isolate an hour or so from home. As close as I can get anyway to solitude, in the winter months, prowling around a nearly empty lake, summer homes standing round the edge, eagerly waiting to be used, eyeless and cold. Going to that spring where I used to ride dirt bikes around, before they closed off the trail, some sandy powerline that you could hit great speed upon, before it tailed off into the white pine wildreness, that smell of clean air tinged with that pine, bringing back memories, sometimes the bad ones win, thinking of those exciting hot vibratory days with a fast bike between my legs, challenging it to its limits, breaking away and exploring the landscape sandscape into the trees, scaring up a deer that for a moment looks like the forest moving, laughing, realizing that there is no fear, just states of mind and allowance of being, roaring over whoop-de-doos and rumbling through stone gulches so fast that you dodge the boulders rather than ride around them. Feeling the skin get rubbed off on the lowest thumb knuckle on my accelerating right hand, calling it quits and making my way down to the cold clear spring water that the indians used to congregate around in the days when the land was not blighted with my kind. Clamboring down all those goddam steps, then back up, all that was there was the steps then, and before me, before that, nothing, now all boardwalked and landmanaged, because people en' masse' tend to be dumb, getting just as thirsty on the climb back up as the thirst I tried to slake on my way down, but enjoying it all anyway, drinking my experience like I drank most of my life, trying to quench a fire that will not go out, dull a pain that will not go away, restore sight to eyes blinded by beauty. And now, being dumb like the masses, as I see all these personal memory ghosts walking about, climbing up a part of the slope that I always used to do, before the boardwalks and the land management, because I have a stupid idea of entitlement, 'I's here before allayou, dammit;', making my way up that slope, not huffing as bad as the kids I saw do it one of the first times I remember being there and asking father if I could do that, too. 'No, not this time.' Climbing up that bastard of a slope in a nearly empty area. Empty of people but not life. Sun breaking through onto the river valley as the cold clear mystical waters gush out of the earth, bleeding out its life, gurgle, gurgle, making for the best possible shots of the day, and me with my camera full. The best joke of the day.
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