Solar Copper

You wake up from a dream in which you’re talking to your mother, and the dissonance is infinitely gradual, but with each breath into waking you can feel the day coming and each breath is its own infinity of knowing. One day can contain a reliving of 9 months’ process of grief.

There is a way to move with this kind of day.

You sit with the dream until you can bear to wake up, and then you cry.

You cry from a lot of different places.

You write.

You do not speak if you can help it.

You sit in the morning sun to smoke a cigarette, although it’s barely still morning, and you can barely stand to open your eyes.

You meditate for a long time, and it is a blessed time.

You cry.

You express gratitude.

You chant, even though this doesn’t usually happen.

You make a rich, nutritious lunch to share in (near) silence.

You go to your brother, where you cry, and he shares with you what is his, plus some of what he owes you.

You feel an undeniable urge to drive, to be out in the World. You think maybe it’s the ocean calling you, but slowly you recognize it’s the hills, and their dry scrub riverbed canyons.

You take a long way of driving, a slow trance driving so you can listen to The Poetry of Self-Compassion, a well-timed loan from a well-timed friend.

On the way, you stop and get paid. You don’t stop for gas, going up into the hills. Did Beowulf stop for gas? Did the old Tibetan woman?

You do stop at the lake, but the lake costs too much to park at and anyway you don’t want man-pumped water full of catch-and-release bass and cheetos wrappers. You want the canyons.

You don’t know where you’re going, by the way. You follow the road that looks like it leads up there, up there away, and it does. It leads to the lake, where a woman tells you where to turn to go where you need to be.

You sing.

You pay the parking fee, and you walk.

And you do get where you need to be.

Across the lawn and onto the trail, and you think just dirt under your feet might be enough.

Off the trail and into the wide rocky swathe of a dry riverbed.

You find a perfectly cube rock, where you sit and do not have to think. This is the place you’ve been missing. These are the crows and the rocks and the rustles and the smells and out here your body moves with the ease and the fire and the idea of a smile here is an idea like any other, an idea as distant and meaningless as the silhouettes of those houses over the peak, this is the place. This is the only place in the day where you feel you can open your eyes.

Sticks and stones show you their bones.

You follow an animal path, a beat grass path that spirals into an eddy nestled into the living wreckage of a split-trunk tree, something wild a maple might recognize in its dreams.

You cry.

Here, you crouch and you use your eyes.

You put your palms on the ground.

Crow says things you never heard a crow say.

Here, crow wings make noise as they beat the air, flying close over your head while you scratch around with your pen, and you can at least find the language to say, with your voice, “This is my sadness.”

When you leave, you suddenly veer right and shuffle down a steep sandy bank, at whose bottom lies a crow feather.

You run.

The sunset is hot pink over the basin of the city sprawl, and you go home, listening to the finale of The Poetry of Self-compassion. It ends as you pull through the gates into your ridiculous oasis.

For dinner, a nice curried carrot ginger soup.

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~ by Arrrow Marie on November 17, 2009.

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