I don’t feel connected to what I experience, and I speak with him about it.
I try to connect through the outline of an animal, starting with our dog, then turn to a black wing against the sky.
When I see a picture of the beloved animal, I think of that animal, who isn’t here.
The principle of association moves me beyond an image to belief, and passion fixes my mind on Chaco.
A mobile relation to perception precedes affect.
Through it I experience from material a screen of surroundings I slice through, like sun through woods onto a golden pool.
A flash to other reality associates to other life, other environment also filled with precious belongings and loved ones, so immediate.
A world may be affirmed by the turn of a wing out of the corner of my eye.
Blue overhead deepens, the flex of an animal flank, the horizon line of the mountain darkens and lowers.
It makes of my experience a critique of innateness, the way a pink plastic chair, a mannequin in a pink bunny suit holding a painting of sunset accretes virtual rouge defining a space that doesn’t refer to objects or belong to me.
I could mistake it for something fractal, shattered; it’s the opposite of that.
No matter how close two sensations, passing from one to another pink is the slice through.
Innateness spreads like sunset across mountains.
I connect with sensation now as to pink petals forming toward me, those who love me in another life responding to me.
There’s no time, so at sunset love from others can look like one rose.
I dream all plants and animals communicate.
Energies of the environment and of inhabitants merge in a kind of horizon of one dream to another.
There’s a transfer of data to systems in which symbols come alive.
I hear a whirring of wings, like finches around the feeder.
Something ordinary may be my experience of a symbol in the day.
These inner fields of reference move with evaluations between selves, trying to make of relation something beautiful like choosing a gift–tiny tree with rock crystal leaves, clamshell inlaid like butterfly wings.
They seem to unify by the inherent interest of beauty, like love from friends who are gone slicing into the present, though I’m unable to accept their support, even as they sense my need.
By illness, I mean my life reduced to reactive, devotional processes.
When I say, Oh I’d do this, maybe I will, but my plans are still a sick person’s.
In other time, I go over an event to assimilate it.
Asleep, I see light around the corner.
A tree with foliage grows more intently focused, as if dream-words finally bring forth a physical tree, but more aware, so its identity doesn’t stop where bark stops.
It can follow identity out to space around the trunk and feel it continue into the atmosphere, but I don’t want to be so dependent on tree, situation, that coming across a symptom I’ve experienced before, I reflexively categorize it.
Each time I dream yellow foliage, it’s in different light.
I’m not weak like a man chasing a hare until he’s exhausted, who complains when you overtake him and seize his prey.
(Immobility, unnatural to the hare, came close to the hunter.)
My wishes aren’t separate from the environment, which is a portion of connectivity, with new species emerging all the time.
I myself may be part of an emergence, dizzy, unaware I’ve crossed a threshold into new focus.
I don’t see the released body of a slain animal running away, cavorting on the hillside.
For you, so tentative, new species would be theoretical, as if they were future luminaries.
There are beings who combine what I diversify, qualities of environment and qualities of self.
My thoughts operate as electrons, there.
They’re not wasted after I think them, but go on, for example, stimulating an exchange of my genes with gardens, artwork, the economy.
My thoughts generate their own thoughts and their thoughts think thoughts with subjective acuity.
I grieve you only read a thought, as it is to you.
You can’t track its position in my consciousness as it speeds away from us, even as I’m thinking it.
You discern just the thought of my thought in stop motion, like one feather of a wing.
I photographed a tree growing from a stone; I photographed the bowed heads of two adults looking at a girl.
The tree exemplifies nature as it relates with humans, feeling around the edges of our concepts, sensing openings in our awareness and forming alliances.
It enjoys contributing to our life, though there’s no individual consciousness, per se.
The “tree” just chooses to focus western juniper, volcanic basalt.