Journal Entries

"Alexa, play Persephone by Syndey Gish"

Each night I listen to this song just before going to bed, with hopes that the stars will be the last thing I see. But sleep can be fitful, for "what dreams may come..."

But the burning red cross shines through the night. A crucifix of fire calling its children home. My feet nestle with each step deep into the sand. The sun will blaze down upon me tomorrow, there will be no shelter. Just the way I need it to be. For in the night, I have returned home.

I have arrived in Wrightwood CA. An interesting little town. Its businesses strung out along the highway. A day of mixed emotions ending with concernation, unless things change. I find myself increasingly unable to access the dream world or meditative states as the land becomes dominated by trees rather than sand. I feel robbed of the environment that was so conducive to bubbling up insights to my psyche. The woods are but a poor, empty shadow compared to the power of the desert. I pray dearly that my real journey has not lost a powerful facilitator...or that its over all together.

The teachings are but a raft. A raft is a burden when one is done crossing the water

Staying in a cabin tonight with homemade sloppy Joes. This Tank-ass fella knows how to cook. Rest of the group knows how to chill. I suppose I can begrudgingly admit at this point that a 0 day can be enjoyed quite thoroughly. Toasty feet, fire just died, time for bed! And off to the world of dreams

In the waking world an approaching storm has forced me from the mountain and into Idylwild for shelter and resupply. I have slept the last two nights under picnic benches to ward off the rain, my tent unable to withstand consistent rain. I have relayed the story to too many people and care not to share it again in my precious few moments on a real keyboard. Suffice to say I did not care much for extracting myself from a pool at near freezing weather and continuing to use my wet sleeping quilt. The storm has, and will likely be for some time, the hardest thing to deal with thus far physically. Yesterday was my first day not hiking (called a zero, or zero day, i.e. 0 mile day). I get a bit too anxious to get on down the path. I can't really say why, it's just a need to keep moving despite a mild case of Plantar Fasciitis. Perhaps that is the residual poison of the real world, the anxiety and pressure to do 'something' rather than take what comes and devise a real plan. However, the hiking group I really like seeing at the end of days (I hike alone until AJ catches up to me at the end of the desert) is also in town. They're just good people who have done impressive things. And the thing about the trail is that is really does a fine job of pulling out the better side of people. Of course, some people seem able to resist the tenancy to be kinder, more empathetic, and grateful - but with as much politeness as one can muster they can be largely avoided. This group however, I'm sure are good people even at home. They let me dry my tent in their cabin, bless their hearts. But it is with great sadness I announce a really good dude has departed from the trail due to injury. His departure aside, it'll be a pleasure occasionally bumping this group. Be good, everyone!

The rain and fog descended upon the mountains driving the tired and vulnerable from their lofty perch. Winds pulled at loose clothing as I surveyed the coming weather. The fog blanket spilling over the top of the ridge like a tablecloth. Below were mountains and valleys jostling for position to hide behind each other, the depth of the land considerable. The falling sun was nearly hidden by the turbulent darkness. Cold has reached this place. It was time to leave. The long trek to the sheltered woods not far down from the ridge line was trying. Icy wind bit through my robe and offered a gentle suggestion of a fast way down. I was met by the forest after some miles, a hundred feet down the mountain. The trees looked cruel among the fog. Twisted limbs reached in all directions in contempt of our expectations. Even the boulders held a menacing aspect in this wicked place. The Witch's Woods. Surely another hiker would come along to dispel the disquiet of this wretched place? This is the only camp for miles. Fog thickened, but no others came. Nestled beneath a disapproving rock and wood pile for shelter from the wind, I would be alone in this place.

I recall not, the entering if the grand stair case. I only remember the feeling of each step beneath my foot, and the realization that there may be no end at all...

If a signet ring is the symbol of authority and its mark proof that the contents are the truth. What is a counterfeit signet ring? If the mind is a sort of arbiter of truth, is it not likely that we are using counterfeits? If we are wrong and wrong again, how is it that we trust our minds so faithfully? The scope of our ignorance is so daunting and unimaginable, yet we trust our thoughts and feelings?

I have had my trust betrayed. It seems the good lord has allowed Satan's armies to march unfettered across the mortal realm so long as a brigade was sent to destroy me and keep me from my holy purpose. 3 centipedes rode into my campsite like the 4 horsemen in the dead of night, making a bold pass for my jugular. The name they had on them, was Death. Hah! I'm not so easy to kill, 'pedes. I flung their leader 6 yards always with a single deft swing of my trekking pole and quickly assembled my tent and dove inside, protected from their villainous stings. I may not be able to cowboy camp again until we dramatically change terrain. Creepy lil' critters. Gross me out.

Let us skip ahead to the end of the next day before returning to the day itself.

I camp at warner springs mile 109 with two dozen other hikers. Happy to report a dramatic rise in proportion of interesting people. We rested, bathed for the first time since starting (bucket showers, my my how clean I felt drying in the sun), and had root beer floats. My group for pizza at a beautiful, affordable resturant watched the Smokey overexposed sun set over the patio then rejoined the others to wait out remaining light in the school yard we're staying in. Remove the cows and horses and I'd believe you if you told me this was wine country. Happy to report the presence of several rather funny guys and gals. Thus totally and completely filling any desire for social time for several days at least.

Now, the emotional meat of this day will come in the next entry, but first, a warning as I further depart from a simple documentation of my travel toward something more like experimental literature.

My dreams are becoming more vivid, a touch harder to separate from true memory. That is not to say, difficult, just harder than before. I intend to foster this trend and as I do, invite you, the reader, to join me in this half waking world of our creation. By continuing to follow this text in the days and months ahead, you consent to enter a hardboiled wonderland of neither reality nor fiction. Its vaporous form swirling amongst the ether to produce a complex dance of my meaning and your interpretation - the meeting of which is, in itself, the art. Our first entry may seem dark at first, but recall, we're in a strange new place of the half-waking where up can be down or even not at all. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies. Welcome to the experiment.

What if virtue was a peanut mm in your hand? Once perceivd, likely gone?