Saturday, 18 April 2015

Journal # 04.18.15

 I had to let the world in, so I could come out right. Like hitchhiking. I only did that a few times. Me and my friend hitchhiked from an outlying town in Georgia to the base of the Appalachian Trail. The man who gave us a ride was a sheep herder from way back. He was embarking on an endeavor to herd Llamas. We were on to summit Blood Mountain on a hot summer day. You can see the world pretty well from up there. I think so. I let the world in, so I could come out right. Like camping. Enduring great changes in temperature, through the fabric of a tent. Freezing. Sweating. Burning. Drinking water from a stream. Getting sick. Eating the wrong plant. Being mauled by a mountain lion. You know. The kinda life Ralph Waldo Emerson envisioned. Or was it Thoreau? Oh I don't know. Letting the world in. Getting older to look more like monkeys. Feeling more human. Running on full, running on empty. Running on diesel. On vegetable oil. Writing books at forty, cause I have no kids. Interfacing more, face-to-facing less. Extracurricular inactivity. I've already lost my appetite. You don't have to let the world in. It will break the door down without knocking. And pick you up some. I got picked up some by the sound of thunder, carried in sheets of rain. I got picked up some and fired up like a steam train. Something fierce turnin' over and over 'til my spit become blood and blood was spit, and I will never be the same, picked up some and never be the same, no, let the world in and came out right, and never be the same.