Afternoon Showers

First really hot night, sleep impossible, then a day where you sweat sitting still, and the showers make things worse, steaming off and seeming to heat things up a notch. I resort to sitting around in my boxer shorts, wearing a wet tee-shirt, a fan blowing across me. Days now of studying prehistoric paintings and there is a language there, a representation that is credible, operating in the visual and tactile domains. All I'm bringing to this table is the fact that I live close to the natural world. I look at some Innuit drawings closely for a very long time, they carry a huge amount of information, they're storied, they show a sequence, impart knowledge. Letter form probably develops from the cuneiform, a mark comes to mean something, the Paleolithic "P", which is fairly common, comes to mind, it's probably either a woman's ass or her pregnant belly; turned on its side it's the swollen belly of a horse in spring. A sign carries meaning. It took thirty thousand years to develop an alphabet and it wasn't easy. We all had slightly different meanings for things, we still do. I don't know exactly what you mean, and you don't know exactly what I mean. An alphabet gives us a step up, but no guarantee. I misunderstand everything as a matter of course. It's a kind of test. I don't really want to waste my time. Or yours. But thinking about this need to express, I thought about the Mayan carendar, talk about factoring time. Almost a waste. But something. Power out so no Send again, also no fan. I strip down and pour a bucket of water over my head. Another day, stop and the lake, study the dissilient seed-pods of various things, milk weed, dandelion. The Wind Solution to getting around, little monads blown from the mother-ship. Noticed that I selectively recuse myself from most matters of taste, what I mean, actually, is that to my inner circle, which includes you, I'll pretty much say anything, but when asked questions from people outside the circle, I usually beg off, one way or another. When I'm docenting, which I do well, I present things as open questions. It is often an insult to a relationship, to take that all-knowing pedestal and forget to listen. After the power went out yesterday, I still had light to read, finished this Randall White book on Prehistoric Art and the damnedest (ugly, is that really a word?) thing happened: Over the last three days I've spent maybe 18 hours looking at prehistoric art, reading text, studying things with a magnifying glass, and at the end of that, this was last night, I found myself able to read a little Aurignacian. It was weird, I knew where to be, when, reading an artifact; I wondered what constitutes text. I won't argue again that I'm a simple guy, but in so many ways I am. This was a really large moment for me, the level of understanding was like writing a very good poem, like really hearing opera that first time that you really listened, like finding yourself standing in a particular spot in the woods and you already see thirteen morels. Magic moments, and at those Magic Moments, someone brought out a story stick and handed it to Gramp or Gram, or someone wearing a lion-deer outfit that was really cool; and they felt the notches, looked closely, told a tale. I saw this so clearly I think I can make it happen in your dreams, it's tangible for god's sake, I can knead it, turn it into musket balls, the nature of reality. They knew as much about the world they lived in as you or me, more, probably. These story sticks humble me, the demand made on memory. I can barely remember my name, they remembered whole seasons. I'm sure this happened, I was reading a book, I may have been distracted, usually I'm a good shot, I'm sorry, where are you calling from? I can hit a six-inch circle from a thousand yards, I shoot well, but you wouldn't, understand that, what was clearly presented.You and this geek. Wow, I'm way stupid.