rust mountain

seething hot parking lot pavement and a clusterfuck of trucks couldn't break the task. hungover spirits exorcised the poison with sweat equity. thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds of ancient historic metal moved by the sheer force of human muscle and laughably dangerous ingenuity. your legs first feel like waterfalls then go numb, and your shoulders and arms burn with an intensity of a hundred suns burned to dust by another hundred suns. one more day of it...and we haven't even got to the really heavy stuff yet. moving like an unholy force feels strangely spiritual. a hellacious task, but this is living.

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storm clouds in the city

olenchin. vahemboa. suit of armor.

volcano lightning

insignificance is staggering. simply simply staggering. and here I sat worried about the line. that johndamn line. from time to time I get caught in a self inflicted scheme of lateral moves; frustrating my brains and nerves and aches and pains and tired hands and tired eyes and tired tired tired thoughts of getting it all back on track. forward, onward. stern to stars always. but sometimes, I slip and somehow I stumble over my own stupid moves. it happens to everyone I know. I just believe I am better at getting back on course than most. it really is simple: just stop making stupid moves and make only forward-thinking, forward-moving actions and make it happen for goodness' sake man! usually I give myself a brief period of time to overthink it, worry on it, crunch the thoughts then get back to brass. but this time...THIS TIME...all it took was a few pictures of Mama Naturelle in furious glory and just as suddenly as the crippling thoughts creeped in, they were wiped blank and gone into the wild wild wind. look at Her...MONUMENTS of gargantuan loping smoke and pure earth fire so furious She is the maker of Her own storm. it makes me sick to my belly to even try to make words on a machine or be bothered with trying to deserve drawing a breath of Her homegrown air or letting the light from the image box dance in front of my dumb eyes. how dare I. HOW DARE I?

feverish

when you can't get the stank smell of old lacquered gasoline out of your head, you just can't shake it. fierce. 71.

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