Help! I'm Still in Big Sur and Trying to Get Home.
I wish at this point, more than 2 months after arriving home in LA, as i make a feeble attempt to use my brain on the weekend, i had forced myself to finish back when it was all a little more fresh. And i'm taking a moment to fully disclose that the remaining entries will likely contain some re-visioning.
I'm a different version of the cross-country cyclist i was earlier this summer: i often have moments of sense memory so strong, that Uta's corpse lifts her weary head for a moment or two and bows honor in my direction, until the feeling passes. Random shocks. In preparation for a camping trip last weekend (in real time, September) - the annual Son of Semele Ensemble retreat - i huffed deeply the scent of my tent and sleeping bag, getting a little stoned from the scent of Big Sur and Bryce Canyon, and the place in Colorado where i pitched my tent in the wind and rain and said fuck it and slept indoors, and the stanky hotel rooms where i used the sleeping bag instead of the bedcovers, and all the other places, back to the Catawba Valley General Store in Virginia, if that's what it was called. ... Ok, i'm lying. Sniffing the sleeping bag didn't get me high, nor could i really smell Utah or Kentucky on there. But it does trigger the Completely Changed Me, still bubbling and rumbling underneath the Regular Me, the one who returned to Real Life and mirrors - both the rearview and the one that tells me that i'm not really that different from who i was before May 12, 2009. Or am i?
I'm a different version of the cross-country cyclist i was earlier this summer: i often have moments of sense memory so strong, that Uta's corpse lifts her weary head for a moment or two and bows honor in my direction, until the feeling passes. Random shocks. In preparation for a camping trip last weekend (in real time, September) - the annual Son of Semele Ensemble retreat - i huffed deeply the scent of my tent and sleeping bag, getting a little stoned from the scent of Big Sur and Bryce Canyon, and the place in Colorado where i pitched my tent in the wind and rain and said fuck it and slept indoors, and the stanky hotel rooms where i used the sleeping bag instead of the bedcovers, and all the other places, back to the Catawba Valley General Store in Virginia, if that's what it was called. ... Ok, i'm lying. Sniffing the sleeping bag didn't get me high, nor could i really smell Utah or Kentucky on there. But it does trigger the Completely Changed Me, still bubbling and rumbling underneath the Regular Me, the one who returned to Real Life and mirrors - both the rearview and the one that tells me that i'm not really that different from who i was before May 12, 2009. Or am i?
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