Hello dear, yes I knew it was you in the photograph because we were dancing. There was the sun fading the surrounding landscape like an orange tshirt in the window display of a department store from 1963. The kids turn the pages of the department store catalog, taking heed of the fading artifacts of recent ancestry. Nostalgia is a latch-key, waiting for us to come home, and I am an open door policy awaiting its incessant arrival because I was the kid flipping pages, not burgers.

Hello, I feel a book in my bones. The marrow is far too narrow to navigate in a manner deemed succesful by any means. And like in my sequence of dreams, I'm trying to piece together the letters lost into an assembly of love. Because one syllable and four letters is five of something. Five fingers on the hand which navigate the five fingers on the hand of another, are ten reasons why.

Hello, there could be a mountain of songs piled in the back hallway of my thought processes and I both want to, and not want to leave this place.

Hello, you really need to get somewhere into this song:

Hello and I am probably from outer space. Sometimes I marinade my body in Tequila and spew forth quotes of yore. Thanks Mark Twain, I mean Samuel Clemmens. I am beginning to persist on a steady diet of beer, Jesus, love, and quite possibly "no shave '08".

I need the redwoods like a hard dose of black tar heroin. I've been displaced among a society lusting for money. I need that rooftop fog over my noggin like a shelter from the insincerity of humankind. I wanna love, love, love. I want to feel the cold creep up my toes in a small, red, two man tent.

I have dreams in French, though I don't speak it. Today I saw crimson hued leaflets descend with the help of a breeze. I met a woman named Joyce, told her I was getting to know Jesus better every day, and gave her a handful of pennies for herself and three children. Take what you need and need what you take. I want a wife and a motorhome, with despair for wanderlust. I want the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada's just three clicks over my left shoulder with my left hand clenched at a circle of movement. I want to find metaphor and preposition in the steering wheel of a weathered, brown and orange Winnebago. I want to always find Jesus when I wash my feet in the glass of a high sierra mountain lake. I want the dirt under my aging fingernails to remind me of my clay-made vessel. And when I'm on the desert floor, I want nothing more then to disregard the ambiguity of the anti, the homogeniety, the cultureless, and the thoughtlessness of western civilization. When I succumb my equilibrium to vertigo by sight-climbing a coastal redwood, I want nothing but a perspective of Love radiating from my soul.

Be here now, if you can.

Dearest Billiam,

It is becoming increasingly pertinant that you find that parts of this Earth which satisfy you most. Never naysay the chest thumping voice in your heart, because you won't know where to bleed if you do. The Sierra Nevada's have called my voice for too long now and I must reject the confinements of institutionalism and far fetch my soul to a higher altitude, because you see, it's all metaphor. Dig, dig, dig little shovel and pile up the dirt, because I'm begging like a dog for a scrap. I want mountain scraps because honestly when I look at 14,496 foot Mt. Whitney, I cannot comprehend anything more than a scrap of it's immensity. And beyond that is God. The most Infinite. And That has become the desire of my most sincere affection since It is that which I can never fully understand, but love so much to study. Where is the Human race? What is it exactly we are trying to accomplish in this bucket-drop? I love you.



Hello, I am a practicing urban anthropologist. My most current fascination is the subculture of the bicycle. I am balancing in the middle of a thought-fence with the unknown on one side and a beautiful girl on the other and am in anticipation as to which side gravity will pull me when I leap-frog in my sleep-log. I like the way the 7:34 PM sun reflects upon the leaves of the tree on the south side of W. 11th street, across from my new home. I dislike the way my lungs sometimes hurt. I like a bicycle without brakes because it forces you to use you imagination to cease movement. I enjoy sitting in the chairs I often find lounging on the side of the road. I take them home most of the time. They are like prostitutes which were briefly used, and then discarded to the streets. And I play the role of Jesus, befriend them and assure them that they do indeed matter. They are much more beautiful than the new leather sofa at the furniture store down the street, which I can only assume has a severe case of self-doubt, covering itself with the skin of an animal. Like the wealthy, that leather sofa flaunts it's cover. I think romantic love is a chemical more addictive, and more often abused than heroin. Romance is rubbish I'd guess, romance. I think that God is real because the human race is able to comprehend, yet not achieve perfection. So you see, there must be something beyond our existance which inadvertantly exemplified perfect. And I believe that is where Jesus plays a key role in the bucket drop of eternity. I would like to have a working stove so I can cook dinner, and a companion who will teach me about God without speaking. My favorite color is brownorange.

I am addicted to a drug with the most severe side effects imaginable: bears, rattlesnakes, hypothermic temperatures, 6000ft. drops to the ground. I am addicted to the mountaindrug. And I just want to climb. I hope to God what I'm finding is real because it's been a constant prayer. This is what I've found: Mountains with snowfall in May. Few folks who understand where they are and why. I've found the insensivity of occupational demands and monetary gain to be devastating to a man who's got a gentle soul and wild heart.

I think we'll be dissapointed when Jesus returns. I think he'll show us real-to-God Love and we're so mixed up with romance that we won't know what it is we're feeling. I'm afraid I'm in an anger struggle because I am unable to necessitate companionship and my only solace is found as far from civilization as I can get because it's the only place God is real to me. And then when I'm drinking a few beers with an old friend in Santa Rosa, Ca. I thank the good Lord for what he has shown me in the mountains and in my good pals while I take a piss and He tells me He loves me. I then turn my head and "I love you" is written on the bar-room wall in magic marker and I know it's real.