Writing from the far edges of the American desert.
All postings that deal with introspection which may include poetry and prose
Thunder rolls across the sky in winter time. How strange that the lightning would spark on the last part of November, while snow is falling. Oh, that powerful thunder echoed across the dark valley as I was heading home tonight, with snow flakes smashing into my windshield.
Beauty is everywhere in this world. The desert is so beautiful, with the deep sparkling snow covering the valley, and covering the mountains above.
An aged river slithers through the yellow sandstone canyon. For millions of years it has. The clouds are passing through the sky, like there is no human existence. This world continues without the presence of humans. We should be grateful to be here, we should try harder to protect it.
I am sitting out here, with everything washed in a soft glow. The blue sky is gentle, not rough. The clouds are majestic, old looking, yet they constantly shape shift. The water in them is ancient. The water flowing in the river, carrying the canyon’s sediments, is ancient. The Earth thunders with an awesome beauty that hides in the Southern Utah Wilderness.
When all else becomes lost, I hope this place remains. The Canyons are safe havens. They speak quietly to those, who cannot find any other comfort in a turbulent, human world of wars, bloodshed, intolerance, and hate. There?s a good side to people, but the bad side is overwhelming…
There’s nothing so peaceful, like listening to a flowing river, wind dancing around, or hearing the various songbirds whistling in old cottonwoods. I want to stay in these places forever.
If I had to walk away, and never look back,
Here are five things I’d take with me:
A piece of Turquoise,
My grandpa’s old cowboy buckle,
A small pocket book of family history,
A Jar of my grandma’s peaches,
And the first quilt my mom ever made me.
Something isn’t right, it’s never right! I don’t know whether I’m depressed or just restless? However, I am enjoying school very much. Finally, I have classes that I can relate to, and people I can discuss political issues with. But the begging landscape keeps pulling me away from civilization, into the shadowy wilderness of Juniper hills, and deep filled canyons of silence.
As I am walking home through the campus, after classes, I’m enjoying the blue sky filled with small white clouds. It’s hot outside, but there isn’t any desert wind. Walking under campus ponderosa, the sun sifts through pine tree branches. An old lady carefully limps past me and I look into the eternity of her eyes. She looks like an ancient creature covered in folded wrinkles with narrow lips tightly woven. She is beautiful and quietly walking past me. She has an intuitive friendly face. I felt like stopping her and talking. I love to be around older people whether they are wise or just lonely. I wander where she was heading? Does her family visit her as she looks quite solitary.
This town is filled with young students in their twenties but them are aliens. I don’t know why? I’m the stranger. In my head an ancient piano is playing: Somewhere My Love at a funeral without visitors, family, or friends. There’s a coffin filled with a sad human being covered in red and yellow roses. This was nothing more then a spontaneous thought: I begin to hear wind howling down sandy canyons. It’s a constant, soothing roar that never stops. Within the quiet shade my mind conjures images from the past. At one time, this college campus did not exist. I can see Paiute men from the old days wondering through here in search of rabbits. Instead of green lawn, there was wild sage. The images flicker in the mind like an old picture show. Between two worlds the sun is humming. Something is out there – waiting.
Long ago, there was no Cedar City, and there were no Mormons entering Southern Utah. This desert province wasn’t Southern Utah. Before them the ol’ Spanish Trail went right through the heart of Cedar City and down into Northern Arizona, to Santa Fe. In 1776-77, the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition traveled through here.
This land is stolen. It is occupied territory. America is a simple label placed on an ancient landbase filled with the endless history that predates Columbus, or my European ancestors. As I am walking, the wind begins howling and weeping. The pine needles begin to sing.
I treasure your advice. You were the wisest of humans. No matter how things evolved, you knew faith and endurance worked. You were the toughest of the brave with those swollen hands of arthritis.
I’ll always remember your soft-spoken eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, hidden behind thick grandma glasses. I would hitch-hike from my town to yours, just to come and stay. That highway would stretch for miles, and I walked for hours, waiting for a diesel to stop.
Our surreal conversations would start in the early afternoon and head clear into the night. During summer the mocking birds impersonated every other song bird. Locusts buzzed outside your desert door. I crave those harvested summers-my imagination reflects them clearly.
It was just you and I dwelling on life. Each talk had a personality. We were Deep Thinkers. It was difficult to see you leave. Time and space have never been the same. That old house of yours still stands, with the family name; Millett, strewn across the front. I miss the chimes and cowbells that sung from your porch.
With Love, You’re Grandson.
My latest excursion was a trip to Lake Powell, with my uncle. We spent the weekend there, and I was amazed how much the water level has dropped, leaving behind a thick white bathtub ring from the previous water level. The skeletons of dead cottonwoods, crumbling sandstone cliffs, and bleached cliff dwellings are all that remain from the original beauty of Glen Canyon. The landscape looks like a cemetery of all things drowned by Lake Powell. I feel sad and angry; I feel a few rednecks robbed Glen Canyon of its beauty when deciding to construct the artificial Glen Canyon Dam. They also robbed my generation and those to come, of a beauty that we can only view in photographs, or hear from those who loved the original canyon. I want the Colorado River to flow freely, allowing it to sculpt every area without restraint.
After seeing what the reservoir has done to Glen Canyon, it should be drained. They say with 40 years, the natural elements may be able to restore Glen Canyon to some of its original beauty. However, I know that there is a local economy built on the foundations of Lake Powell. The National Park Service calls the entire contraption; Glen Canyon Recreation Area. One tourist company’s slogan reads: Lake Powell – America’s Natural Playground.
As you can see, I would probably side with the Glen Canyon Institute and Living Rivers, on decommissioning the dam, and permanently draining Lake Powell forever; but I merely hold an opinion on this matter. I cannot speak against those who depend upon Lake Powell for their livelihood, but people need to start respecting the land, instead of exploiting it. Many see the land for economical or recreational value, or something that needs to be conquered. But the land is not ours to be exploited.
There are thousands of gas-guzzling houseboats traversing the reservoir like the Mississippi. It is a demoralizing issue altogether, and I want to see the canyon restored to its previous shape.
Mother Earth will take care of everything. A massive flood could easily rip out the dam. But the current drought has caused Lake Powell to drop nearly 130 feet. If the current drought persists, the dam may become completely useless. And whether we realize it or not, humans are only a small part of the ‘big picture.’
In the heart of the mountains, I hear pines singing and admire waves of grass pushing and pulling in meadows. Heavy clouds wield themselves against blue space. At meadow edges, forest gates stand dark where slender pines grow side by side.
I enter a quiet thicket where sunshine sifts through dense branches to touch an organic floor. The woods go on for miles, creeping.
There’s something very queer about high mountainous areas, or plateaus where aspen rattle; where young pines grow among dead ones. I can barely sort out their rotten, crumbling shapes. It is a cemetary.
Laying down on mossy soil, my mind crawls though mysteries. I hear the footsteps of a Sasquatch and the deep breathing in his chest. What a dream! I believe in this creature. Maybe he?s a friendly shadow in sync with earth’s quietness?
Things exist that we cannot see. I’ve spent my lifetime wandering the Southwest and I’ve heard the unusual noises whispering on windy days, or perhaps it was my hallucinogenic imagination?
I’m careful not holler with fear when alone in the mountains, faraway from roads ‘n trails. Deer, squirrels, and chipmunks visit my campsites. Maybe some day the mystery will find me alone. I fear unknown things. Often I wonder if it’s a fear of cougars, bears, and mentally-ill coyotes? Something is spying on me in the deep. The trees have eyes.
To Dad: Thanks for making me aware of the tempest inside.
This cold desert drowns in rain. The heat wave vanished, as clouds come strolling in over the Paria desert, just northwest of Page, Arizona. Water pelts the ground, breaking up the hard dirt. Thunder gallops across the vista, and the wind wails. Lightning flings its arms. In a pinion tree, sits a raven waiting with his head bobbed down. He’s dangling like a Christmas ornament. Water droplets fall from his folded wings, and from his dark tail feathers.
Under an alcove, I wait out the storm. Long ago, ancient Puebloans were hunting and gathering beneath these skies. I could just imagine them traversing up flashflood washes, where white caliche grows on rocks and tree branches, along Cottonwood strewn riverbanks that flow from sandstone canyons.
The raven ruffles his feathers, then flies from the pinion, landing on the ground 10-15 yards away. The little fellow just stands looking at me. Maybe he wants something to eat? I say nothing at all.
His shiny feather coat is perfect. Everything is black. His long beak stays closed and humble. By sage brush and wavy grasses, he rests. Letting the windy valley around, swallow him. Soon he squats, and bows his head falling asleep like a chicken at roost.
The desert is warm colored; dark red sandstone, deep purple clay, orange-pink cliffs, and yellow-tan mesas. The raven is surrounded by all these colors. Together they communicate the deepest message to my heart, that the beauty of this land is forever magnificent and rugged.
I drive out of this small town early on a spring morning, and off into the wilderness. Heading down dirt roads on tires worn thin, they stir dust into clouds. Going 50 miles per hour across purple sage valleys, I’m headed for a mountain range of low rising foothills.
The road itself doesn’t intrude much. Southern Utah is a piece of the old west, where the brown foothills contrast sharply with blue sky. It is quiet, except for the distant rumbling of commercial jet airplanes, or a few cawing ravens.
Living in silence, I have an old-fashioned heart that yearns for the dying past. It is dying because humans are forgetting from whence they came. They are building new technologies and claiming to be evermore advanced. Soon they’ll be claiming to control the weather, and will have every spot of earth under their footsteps.
When that sun falls every night, I cannot stop looking into the crimson colors, knowing that one more day shrivels away. As we head into a future of uncertainty, what will we face?
I feel like a monster possessed with evils
that I cannot escape.
I’m stuck with my vehicle, a necessary evil,
four wheels to carry me across the barren planes.
I am a mass of thoughts
and dreams chasing forgotten things,
a recluse always in those mountains,
always feeling brave and alone.
The atmosphere is teeming with nomadic clouds.
I want to move with passion.
The earth owns my aching, ascetic core.
I’ve been broken and pulverized.
Still, I want to remain undeceived.
I want to resist modern-life
and day-dream.
There are several stories about lost gold mines and Spanish treasure in Southern Utah. After all, this land was once occupied by old Mexico. My grandpa warned me to stay away from the stories. They could drive anybody crazy who listened to them.
I was in a bakery in Cedar City and overheard two bearded guys talking about a possible gold mine that one of them found. Then one individual started telling a story about a crazy hermit that spent an entire lifetime searching for lost gold. He became desperate and found a cave in the mountains near Cedar City and collected all this petrified rat shit from inside. Filling the back of his truck trailer with this stuff, he drove to a place that would confirm it was gold ore! When they saw what it was, they busted apart laughing. I gotta be honest, it was a funny story.
This prospector must have been doped or something? There are many of these types that scourer the desert in search of hidden treasure. They seem to be the ones leaving their beer can trails all over the countryside. I’ve met a few that claim to be “expert” trackers.
lmao…
Today, My brother, my cousin and I were coming back across a very remote area on the Arizona Strip on our way back from Toroweap, of the Grand Canyon. That is where we had been camping. You have to traverse 64 miles of Primitive dirt road to reach this part of the canyon, and we had some bad luck while heading home. My cousin took his truck because it offered 4-wheel drive, but his tire went flat because of a tear. We had some help from a stranger, and that was a lucky thing. We thanked him.
After an hour or more of driving, we came across some ranchers who were herding cattle down the road. They had a twelve-year-old boy that was following them (he was driving a truck and trailer with horses in the back!), and their sheepdog was following behind. As we were passing them, they were stopped and their sheepdog went under the truck, and maybe it was for shade? Anyways, as we were passing them the boy ran over his dog, killing it. It was terrible. We stopped and hollered them down, and the boy came out screaming for his dad with tears in his eyes. His mother had been sitting in the passenger seat. I’ve never seen anything so disheartening, and we were about 38 miles from the main highway.
All the way home, we couldn’t stop talking about what had happened. I can only imagine how this boy must be feeling? I wished I could’ve done more to help?
Stuff like this makes you realize how fragile and short life can be.
I picture myself somewhere in a sandstone canyon on the Colorado Plateau; a deep gully in the belly of Mother Earth. Rock walls tower hundreds of feet above my head. Looking up into a narrow sky, I see clouds drift slowly in the heavens. But really, I’m actually typing a message on the internet. There is tremendous pressure to disappear into the boonies, beyond the reaches of my home town.
A reckless wisdom taunts my footsteps, speaking to me in windy whispers. The trees have eyes looking at me. Listen to the forests howling in distant mountains. Giant Ponderosas filter wind through furry branches. Their steeples stand tall against Father Sky; their roots sink deep into Mother Earth.
I feel crazy, craving an escape. I’ve been chained to the hardware, the square house, the quilted bed, the fast food, the television, and the structured linear things of society. How bitter sweet.
Turning on the radio late last night, I listened to AM static singing from distant lands . I could imagine the radio waves bouncing and traveling hundreds, even thousands of miles to reach my little receiver and through the speakers.
Maybe I can wander off somehwere faraway?
The morning light peered through that dirty window. The dawn was dark blue. The gusts of night were settling down. Robins nestled in trees and sung in choruses. My feelings were bewildered. My brain was recovering from yesterdays unsettling world of chaos: News flashing, history popping, and radios screaming. They all had the unique affect of creating a rambunctious fury.
Where the mountain sits waiting, the white painted aspens rattle their leaves; something grows uneasy? Here in a dark bedroom, unsettled thoughts march down the main-streets of my subconscious, into halls of my conscious. They refuse to leave, and are so pugnacious.
Night time slips away, and when dawn shines through the window, there’s so many reasons to be thankful. As I write, I ponder previous days and the hardships that humans continue to face.
The redrock sea still simmers shortly after dusk. During daytime hours, it was a frying pan sizzling beneath traveling blue clouds. Even green shady trees couldn’t yield to that massive fireball in heaven!
This world of crimson light hums with desert heat. Secrets shroud themselves in realms of deep starry night, after father sun drifts beyond western horizons. Listen to those humble hoots of a wasteland owl that sings from cottonwoods. Many creatures hunt skillfully in darkness.
To all furry little rodents, beware! That great winged beast haunts the midnight air.
He raises his arms to the black sky untamed knowing of an endless escape, of making voyages to limitless places, where the clouds form dark castles. The gentle rains touch the weary land with a sparkling shimmer, like stars at night. These vistas weave a web in his mind, entrenching themselves permanently.
Forever, let him travel where eagles beat their wings upon air and plane the sky so free. This Journey tonight is a different world beyond the Sun’s horizon, where heaven and Earth meet. Oh how this heart sings!
There are strange feelings in my bosom, singing in my cranium. They roar like thunder in summer. These dreams love beauty. They stand defiant against those that harm Mother Earth. For the land never stops calling my spirit. Those Pinion foothills call my name, and even spacious landscapes of isolation. Those mountains laugh and sing like coyotes, but they protect this loneliness.
I am free from the cage of society, free from chains. I throw away those consumerist woes. I can feel Earth Mother once again, and feel her beautiful dream, even on darkened nights.
The spring season draws nearer. Flowers start to bloom. The crickets are fiddling at dusk. Robins start their chaotic symphonies right before dawn. Far away from town, my mind floats through mountain valleys of sage and cedar.
In the middle of night the tower of stars glows bright. In a rocky canyon that surpasses time, I surpass the vanities of a punitive world. On that eroded desert floor my camp fire burns and crackles. The light flickers and dances off sandstone walls.
Sometimes a blackened forest is a cathedral in the bliss of night. When all else fails to make me happy, I disappear into the wild. I sometimes fear the mysteries that creep out there, to and fro; where rocks may speak their wishes! But on those long days, the Creator is looking after my lonely heart.
Forgotten whispers are carefully listened to. The old ways travel the wind. Always respect what is sacred.
Every now and then, there is a strange silence on that mountain that finds its own way into our little town. Mysterious animals shroud themselves in the forests up there, beneath the cloud scraped skies.
Alone and dirty on quiet afternoons, I like to leave the town on foot entering into those trees on the mountain’s edge. The great forest always knows when I am coming.
I climb to a hill just below the mountain and sit down on top of it to take a break, letting a little sunshine bathe me.
Ever since I was a kid, I’m used to the fact that trees can talk to each other. They can visit among each other like people, but with their own tree language. Words among trees spread faster than the wind. One tree sees me coming, and they all know I’m there!
People do not listen to this mountain very much, they seem to have their ears closed when it speaks or acts funny.
Long ago, it is said that there was a great bird the size of a house that found the shady canyons of the mountain a home. I believe there are creatures here today, still unheard of.
If you carefully listen when you come to the mountain, you will be tricked into hearing phantom noises. These whispers or jolting laughs are the trees being funny. If you hear anything that you cannot explain, it is them. They like to fool with your mind!
When no one is around but me, the trees sing. They sing happiest when the wind filters through their branches.
Trees think and can record history in their own way too. They seem to keep memories of those that have died long ago; remembering the wars, and the good times of five fingered beings!
The trees of this mountain have always been together and united. They know what peace and happiness are. While Mother Earth turns on her axis, there they are always waiting. They know what the wind will bring. They know it carries in its arms, silent messages of the Earth Mother. She speaks her thoughts through them. They talk when she does.
Summer is near. Hopefully the clouds will come and bring rain upon the Colorado Plateau and Great Basin. These two enormous and uncanny deserts are my church, where untouched secrets still lurk; where wild creatures roam unscathed.
There is good and evil in this little conundrum of life, but everything serves a purpose. Our reality cannot be understood with any theory. Humans can try, but I don’t think they will ever succeed in defining our infinite existence. Science and math cannot describe the beauty of a thunderstorm roaring across the land, becuase it can’t describe how I feel inside. For the Creator is gorgeous; and reality is forever a mystery.
When I photograph the landscape, the trees are the most profound models. Their twisted shapes tease my spiritual universe, manifesting great feelings to my heart. When I see the shapes of trees, and stand in their shadows, and touch the bark of slithering branches, I respect the intelligence and kindness that whispers softly from those fleshy-wooden centers. They seem to communicate with compassion. They love life in unconditional ways; great peacemakers in a hardened, troubled world; patient creatures, with the greatest definition of understanding. I?ve wanted to emulate their calmness, but I envy their beauty. Cemented in one place, they grow so wise and bountiful; those roots crawl so deep. They are so clever; that white painted Aspen, that rustic pine, and every other wooden spirit.
It was a cabin in the wilderness, where a Tree Man discovered my sorrow, and the clouds and wind never stopped. He called himself the Dream-maker, and was full of wordless resonance. I spoke with the wooden mind carefully, its heart was quite a spook; It so skillfully-artistically studied my vision. Noon dripped from the pines like butter. The visitor was so hard to learn. While the ground around him was dark like ravens? it was his thrown of beauty. The sky palace above was sweet as flowers in a young meadow. Soon he left the ancient cabin and strutted like an old fellow bent with pain; dressed like a three-hundred year old hobo, a hermit ghost in organic rags. If you ever gazed into the eyes of this beholder, the compassion was more elder then humans. In the end he became a tree. For the sun in a quiet world is the peace of such rest and stillness.
The thunder and wind are acting strange this evening. The crickets are serenading. I’m standing there are the mesa edge watching the sun scatter its rays through gaps in the clouds. The desert becomes glowing red, and the rain sparkles through the sun’s rays, soaking the monstrous cottonwoods below, bathing them in a deep yellow light. All is quiet, except the wind, thunder, birds, and crickets. I watch the lightning strike the desert back and forth in the mystery of the moment, randomly hurling itself out of dark thunderheads that engulf the desert in shadow.
These canyons are my home, my soul. Mysteries are flowing down unknown channels. The Sky Father is happy this evening, and the sun knows I’m here waiting. And this world has awakened. It is so awesome to hear her voice, and nothing can surpass the moment. The beauty is forever strong, and my heart is beating. There are creatures that creep in unknown places, and the shade lurks in the trees. It’s a strange thing with a personality, looking at me with invisible eyes. It’s laughing hard and wailing, but what does it mean?
There are so many sounds, so many different birds singing in the cottonwoods and the creek below is busy singing, and the rain splashes on the rocks like gravy. A roaring flash-flood goes rampaging somewhere in the abyss of shady wasteland, and somewhere, somebody’s footprints have never been found. Their body lays undisturbed like a footprint on the moon; dead like a mummy, and buried somewhere deep.
The clouds begin to break slowly, then pass over the mountains to the north. The thunder goes with them. The sun sets it’s foot on the horizon, then slowly creeps below. I watch the sky ignite into crimson colors, then fading to purple, and then deep maroon. I waited until the last sliver of ancient sun departed, and stood there till every color came to an end. Then I awoke from the pleasant dream.
The plateau country was radiating, and the raven’s had vanished to the alcoves where their young awaited. I was beneath an alcove myself, near some petroglyphs that I had photographed. Their gnarly shapes and twisted bodies were perplexing; Little figures with antennas dancing across the rock-face. Their strange grip on my spirit was marvelous and erratic. They healed that uncanny darkness within. What are these peculiar creatures, painted and etched in sandstone canyons? They invade my head with their shadows at night, and glow like phantoms.
The entrance to the that twisted canyon country was covered in a dream, but I can still feel its shadow on the breeze that slithers like a snake down old mountains, and across vast landscapes. It reminds me of whirlwinds, and dust devils, and how they turn so mysteriously. I am grateful that the wind is in me, that I may breathe!
Our family went south of Cedar City and almost made it to Arizona. There was a new area that we had never been before, and it was awesome. Big red rock cliffs came jutting out of the ground like backbones. Creosote bushes and various cacti decked the landscape clear to the horizon.
We left Cedar about 6:00 A.M. before the sun even came up, just right before dawn. The Pine Valley Mountains, located south of Cedar City began glowing in a soft purple hue and then turned pink, red, and orange. The sky was burning red. The whole vista was dreamlike, and brilliant.
When the sun rises, it is good to witness. Because if you’re lying in bed and sleeping, you must ungrateful and lazy? That beautiful sun provides warmth for this planet. If it weren’t for its service, we’d all be dead. It is hard for me to rise in the morning, but I have been doing it lately. Going to bed early and rising early is a good habit. It creates a mind full of wisdom and happiness. The day seems more fulfilling and high-minded.
I always try to be thankful for my innate source of power, and I am grateful to be living and breathing the sweet air of the Earth. I’m grateful for my parents, siblings, and family. So don’t forget to count ALL your blessings, instead of being ungrateful.
Hopefully, I don’t flip-flop on this subject, but I’ve tried to be thankful for everything that the Creator has given. I’m even thankful for being depressed sometimes. Because blessings come in many different forms, whether they be good or bad. The struggles in life are blessings. They teach you to endure to the end.
When I viewed the sunrise on the desert this morning, It reminded me of everything beautiful and bountiful. What a grand and stunning world that we all have the privilege to live in.
The wind pushes through the forest like a wild stallion, roaring in a thousand rivers. In the mountains around my home, Bristlecone Pines stand high on the edges of cliffs and mountain peaks; catching and shredding the wind in their twisted branches, making it whistle and wail! I’ve been up there on those mountains, in places where no other man has ever been. I’ve befriended those ancient monsters of peace. They have chosen to grow in the most barren places. They are wise for their perseverance, and for their stubborn lives.
They were on my mind tonight. I was day-dreaming. When I am confined, busy, and unable to travel, I depend on a core of mental images/landscapes. But that simply isn’t enough! Sooner or later, I start going crazy. Surely, the desert is always singing to me.
The urge is relentless. It keeps me thinking about the deepest parts of my life. Is my existence on Mother Earth important? This journal serves a purpose, no matter how obsolete. It is an endless journey to discover my own shadow. I’m just one of billions!
The wilderness is my haven, because it always feels safe. It keeps me balanced and sane.
Click Here for info on the gorgeous Bristlecone Pine!
It’s constantly agitating; something keeps bothering me, but I can’t identify the source? I’m dubious? There is this constant impulse to wander off somewhere? But school is an anchor. Why do I feel distraught? This city is surrounded by desert on all sides, and I’m pondering on deep beauty.
We all dream. We all feel cut off. We are lonely, and need a freedom that is hard to reach. So continue to survive, because the mysteries are still singing. I can see the clouds as they travel the sky, and they are restless.
There’s a quote I’ve heard, and have no idea where it came from: if a tree falls over in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it matter? I feel that it does matter!
I want to resist; I want this world to change! Listen to what Blackfire has to say.
My heart is humble in the face of endless landscapes and places where the modern world hasn’t invaded. Beautiful places are safe. I sometimes fear the world that we all live in. I fear those human beings that can crash airplanes into tall buildings killing thousands of people. At the same time, I fear leaders who use war and try to justify their killings. How can a war justify dead woman and children lying on the ground? Where does someone escape an ignorant worthless existence? Animals kill, but Animals never instituted a holocaust like humans are capable of doing. It’s very sickening, because I am human. I am held down and mocked by those who don’t want to understand. Humans are scary. But when out there on the wilderness, away from civilization, the wind howls all around me. It feels safe. There are many hidden places that the Unknown can still abide.
The oppression is overwhelming. Society is getting old in its worthless despair. Their existence is beginning to look like a grave. And from my perspective, it’s being done in the name of religion. One day, when everything deteriorates, people will be left with their survival. There will be no airplanes stealing the sky. Those gigantic cities will be dark at night, like ruins. It will be peaceful when real justice comes. The outcome is not known though. And I think Earth will do the cleaning.
Could I rip myself from the core of this existence? What could I do? Trying to exist in this world is always an uphill climb. But it is also impossible to understand what everything means? I’ve always possessed deep anger. It is difficult to interpret though, but it’s been very close to my heart. I’ve defended what I feel about truth.
My existence is unforeseeable, but my dreams are strong, and I am not afraid to talk. Nobody can regulate my behavior, or my spirit. Life is uncontrollable and so is my Expression. The clouds cannot be controlled, and they freely roam that deep blue sky, and my spirit wants the same. When I am on the mountain, I look down upon everything in an ageless forest; the flashlight then becomes my friend against the dark night of winter. The tower of stars can be heard singing, for the light found in this world, is the peace of such rest and stillness. The sun is shining in a quiet world.
While all of us are probably blind-folded, there are those that suffer in the heat of a miserable existence, and they want to grow strong. What has been stolen needs to find its place once again. There is strength everywhere, and it’s a power that is understandable. Because it simply enters my dreams and desires like a tornado, and it creates certain feelings. Any strong truth is awesome. Anything that we can relate with could be truth.
My brain is quite screwed-up. I’ve been a selfish person, and with that, I’ve become wasted space. But my convictions cannot be squashed. The landscape is older then us. It’s more alive then most people who take without giving. It’s older than those that destroy beauty to simply eradicate the meaning of everything. The land does not exist for economical purposes, or recreational purposes. It serves a definitive purpose, and I am tired of seeing it exploited. It belongs to certain nations that are understandable.
It makes my heart bitter to know that some people destroy places that are sacred to others. I am tired of hearing about every form of exploitation, and the mindless creeps that take the fat of everything beautiful. I am sick of hearing about the disease that wants to occupy everywhere and in between. It’s taking, and taking, but giving nothing back. It’s a thief. It’s an ignorance plagued with immense stupidity, because in its greatest intelligence, it will be forever blind. It is totally oblivious to truth and harmony.
In the summer, when I am on the desert listening the thunder gather, I can feel the heartbeat and wisdom that stirs. When I see an old man barely surviving, I think of his great strength, and how ignorant I am. When I see old people, or a little baby, I am reminded of beauty. When I see things that are beautiful, my heart rejoices that such things compose this world; for she is our awesome Earth Mother, whom we should have the greatest respect for.
The power of this world is mysterious. I have no definition for anything. It’s strange that one truth can contradict another. But everything is hard to understand, and my place is peaceful, and silent. The amazing thing is a four-thousand year old Bristlecone Pine Tree standing against the heavens, while its roots cling against solid stone with barely any moisture.
I guess when no one is around, you don’t have to argue or relate. But when you have relatives around, you should understand them, no matter how screwed up they might be. You’re screwed up too. And it is disturbing when I try to honestly think outside the box of paradigms that I carry so close. So I am always left with the conclusion that I know nothing at all. I can’t ever claim to know anything. And I cannot even begin to explain what I am trying to describe.
Getting off the soap-box now… 🙂
After watching the western movie titled; Unforgiven, it reminded me of a trip my brother and I made out to Nevada, to a place called Pioche. During the late 1800’s, They say Pioche was one of the most ruthless towns in the West. It was a busy mining town and a war zone. If you visited, you ran the chance of being harassed or even killed. Murder wasn’t uncommon in Pioche, Nevada. It was also common in many other colonial frontier settlements at the time. In my opinion, this was the true history of America’s expansion into the West while drunk in corruption. The movie Unforgiven, will satisfy this assumption; It will testify about everything. There’s no Hollywood glamour, or fake stereotypes in this movie. You will see things up close and personal. You will see the disease that plagued the territory. This often must have been the true lifestyle during America’s westward expansion; or the prime of it’s Manifest Destiny.
This movie is directed by Clint Eastwood, and he’s also the main character. Unforgiven is highly disturbing, and hard to understand.
Click Here – for the movie at Amazon.
Today’s high temperature was 25 degrees. Tonight’s low will be 6 Degrees. My family left town yesterday for the weekend, and I decided to stay behind. So it’s just me and the dogs, and I took them west of Cedar on a hike. This town is right on the borderline of the Colorado Plateau, and there are mountains. So it seems like this place gets more snow than the desert. I journeyed out there today and there wasn’t much snow. But had an enjoyable time, and made it back safely.
The other day I almost got stranded. My vehicle is old and was having some problems, but I made it back okay. I was off in a canyon for about six hours doing some photography, and enjoying the silence. When I returned to go home, the car was totally dead! Several times I tried push starting it but nothing would happen. Just after dusk, a man stopped in a Chevy truck and was kind enough to jump start my car. I hadn’t seen anyone else all day. This location was about 20 miles from the main highway. So I was glad that I didn’t end up spending the night out there. LOL.
So I will end by saying Happy New Year!
I wrote this a few years ago, and was reading it tonight from a past journal. I am reposting it here to share. I hope that anyone who is feeling lonely tonight will read these words and feel comforted by deeper feelings. When I am sad, that is when I write my best thoughts and it’s when I dream my best dreams. Life is too short to take for granted. We all need beauty and love and we all need a friend that is willing to listen.
________________________________
Out There on the Desert
When I go into the desert on some remote highway, I am there by myself and surrounded by so much beauty. This is stolen land! Once people use to dwell here. but now they are somewhere else. They are no longer here.
This makes me real sad inside. As I am sitting on the edge of some cliff, I watch the sun go down and reflect its last light over the red sandstone and I can feel the old ways that were once here. The sun is something even more personal way out here! It has a spirit that talks to you!
Every day I am wondering what is going to happen to this little world. I go on these trips alone and the anger disappears. I only want what is peaceful. I always ponder about those old days that happened so long ago. it is the way it was.
Winter is drawing nearer to the desert. Leaves have fallen from the trees. The mountains are no longer green. It’s time for a change in beauty, white snow covered valleys ready for silent dreams.
To My Dad in Salt Lake –
If your reading this; I just want you to know that I am grateful for everything you’ve done for Joe and me. You’ll always be my Number One Father! Nothing will transcend that either. Actions always speak louder then words!
=======================
Journal Entry –
I nearly drowned in classes today. I’m taking a Middle Eastern Politics class, Sociology, and another class titled Social Problems. They all seem connected. More and more, the education is challenging my beliefs and opinions. Wow!! Three wake-up calls today on the path towards awareness. I want to weed out any terrible Prejudices that might still be lurking in me, and stab ’em all to death!
Life is good. People are beautiful. And Earth and Sky are all beautiful. My family and friends are beautiful, and I love them very much.
Tonight is a happy night; a good evening to say something positive. I received a lot of knowledge today, so perhaps this is the after-affect. It’s more like an afterglow.
Have you ever herd the quote; “Nothing is more wonderful then losing a closed-mind!” …Wow!
I have the day off. There’s twenty dollars in my wallet and a car waiting for the desert’s wiry dirt roads. The desert is calling. Mental images of the land are dancing in my head.
When we journeyed across Parowan Valley, past the alfalfa fields, and ranches; large numbers of ravens were everywhere. They were gathering in different locations. But they were bunched in large groups. Some looking like they numbered in the hundreds. What were they up to? Were they getting ready to travel somewhere? Even in the dead of winter, the ravens are always at home on the landscapes of Southern Utah.
The West Desert is sweating, even in the autumn’s heat. Something is calling me to venture into the Unknown. The simplicity and isolation sing to my senses. The simple silence speaks between Mother Earth and Sky. It’s the fact that I am alone, free to move, and free to be happy without restraint.
You never know what paths you may cross, nor lessons learned. Strange things manifest themselves where loneliness lurks. The desert is sentient and aware of my soul.
So today, that old car will travel a hundred miles of dusty roads, towards the heart of old ghost towns, sage, and thunderous dreams. Places that can only be found in mystery, where wild horses still roam the mountain ranges!