sotto voce: the years drift by, suspended, swirling. here in Crestone, standing, walking, sitting on the roots of the Blood of Christ mountains. an old Volkswagen goes by. camping and wondering about everything. watching self (over-consciousness. trying to feel the place.) leaving Colorado soon. too soon. sometimes a thought how to damn my connection to the Place. that I could move, complete, away, fully en-souled, but that does not happen.

di-fusion over. surely the last time I try anything like that at a US university. the system simply works against the nature of an open event, from the class schedules of the students to the rigidity of the technical infrastructure. it comes to a question of why the hell to even attempt to do what I do within these structures. time to leave academia. easter. springtime in the Rockies, a phrase that I many times wrote to folks living here when I was away for those 12 years, in a wistful way. wishing I could find a support mechanism here. seems everywhere else it is possible, even easy, but here doesn't work. hmmmm.

and being passed by, over, through, even in my comfort: from artist studios in East Berlin to academies above the Arctic Circle, to offices in Manhattan, oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, and the millions of kilometers in steel-skinned vehicles. all those territories, and nothing of socialized value comes from it. cultivation of idiosyncracy does not pay. individual vision is not validated by dominant cultures. or is that only what I perceive? that the individuality of vision obscures other possibilities directly before the eyes? we see what we want to see. in an eternally remixed society of malaise, negation, and imposed standards of be-ing. (or are these sentiments merely what I want to see around me?)

and the baited consciousness, rising, rising, rising. while things are down, and language totally falters, it is nothing. it is the lubricant that greases the interstices of the social construct, making human-to-human juxtaposition tolerable.