ambivalence

I think of you often and my love is with you wherever you are.

I arrived back to the land just as the sky began to wake in a pale wash of blue and grey. The Walsh house glew orange through a half-moon window down the valley. The birds filled my ears with their constant song—a thousand calls and voices swirling around the goldenrod and dew-bearing grasses, tall and cricket-filled. I walked under the power lines and down my trail towards the faint stained glass and cut curtains coloring my windows.

A crescent moon, clear and white as bone, hung above the tree line as I plugged in my guitar to the Fishman and began playing a tune I’d started back in Los Angeles—a song about returning home. And here I sat in my shire, beside a shed full of plants and organs, built with care by the hands of myself and many who I love most.

Soon Gali, Micah, and Emma arrived and came over the hill, drenched in blue and still beyond the veil of a mushroom trip. Emma and Micah danced in laughter as I improvised a little song. The birds joined in unison as they swirled. Gali brushed her teeth beside me, hunched into herself to keep warm.

We entered the studio where our temporary mattress lay, and I drained the room of its golden light with the twist of a key. The light, now dim and gathering up mainly in bunches around the windows, was soft as I pulled the quilt up over Gali and me.

Paris - July 3rd, 2011