Sanctity

In the way Sam and Ken and Mitch teach us about their rarefied glimpses into freedom, in the way Mt. Blanca is sacred only by reminder, a certain night doing certain things at a certain tavern is a beacon in the night as one journeys down in elevation from a retreat from urban density and cynicism. I can say that I met others and learned from others and dove into disruptive images and moments in which my freedom was as raw and pure as unfettered frozen death in the nighttime Animas as it brings me back to the river bed from which I daily splatter in hidden primordial ooze. What drove man to cross these waters and risk familiarity? Risk it, you say? Despite this language's insistence on building a 'past' or a 'history' or an 'identity' from which events emanate like an omnipotent chia-pet, I go forward to (to quote Buzzy Schwartz) "loosen up, not to fill up." I eat as a glutton to then eat as a poor person, poor from Nepal, yet as rich in mountain snow as གངས་སེང་གེ.

I see sand, I see white sand everywhere. This must be the white sand that has blown against the mountainside. Do you see how it begins right now, and how it is everywhere? If it isn't sand, then nothing is here; I cannot have visions of dismal blindness: one either sees the sand or the film projector of one's own nightmares. I turn to clutch my lost love as this film grows terrifying. Instead my right arm crosses to an absolute zero frozen abyss, and now I've lost my right arm. From the sand, in my armless walk in the desert, I see the purple mountains. The various letters of the alphabet are perched there on its peaks.