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russian park04 October 2003 - 20:28 I sit in the van outside his house, close my eyes, try to imagine the world as a warm liquid membrane around me, every sound part of me, a communication. A park in Portland: flat ground low grass Douglas Firs 100 feet tall. Loom. Gingerbread land. North country. Pinnacles and spires. You stand face to face with a fir and a realization illuminates the silhouette of the tree -- that shape. That majesty. A place. [Physical and emotionaL] In me. I almost want to break out and say it, but I'll simply leave bread crumbs. The clutter of right and wrong and worth gone from the mind leaves a glassy ocean, a mansion with room after room, soft yellow light on polished wood, a Buddha 30 feet long lounging on his side, ceramic eyes SEEING you. |