August 31, 2000: Postcard marked urgent

Lake Quintano— two miles from my nearest touch, a fog bank covers the resting mountains. Not as majestic as Mount Rainier—they seem to be rolling, as if to be embracing the birthplace of migrating salmon.

While driving, my vision was blocked by loggers and the two-foot high stumps they left behind. The sight doesn’t bother me—it’s as if we’ve agreed to disagree. For now, I’m completely fascinated with the black birds soaring above…they’re extremely noisy! They’re in a world of their own—the coves are what they’ve decided to conquer.

My energy level is racing—which does nothing but garnish the thoughts of those I travel with, “Slow down! Relax!” Ok, how about if I die and start all over? This display of untouched expression isn’t a light switch—therefore, I try to sit in silence, a pen and paper create for me…the stupid pieces of shit I describe as being paintings.

This is what I get for having an addiction to creative flow—laziness is what clogs my pattern!

To be a cloud…or…a tree swept over by a cloud—the lumberjacks are less than five miles away. To hide within the clouds, savoring every breath of air, knowing today…could be the day. A white man’s rule changes faster than her rivers grow— to be a cloud, a puff of white lifting upward as if to be collecting all it can.

For a moment, a breath of air is held—a new home in Georgia requires this tree… I can’t imagine such replanting—to be a rootless tree inside a careless society.