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Time Spent and Time Kept

A small place in the woods. A winding quiet forgotten trail that leads up and up and up into the canopy.  It spills about a wandering dynamic, a damp musky matrix of undergrowth, a buzzing metropolis of movement and matter.  Amongst the mulch lies rock and reformation.  The signs of man and woman, a creation of vanity and veracity.  A dueling combination of subjective creativity and engineering amongst a hardened preface forged by the hand of time and unleashed elements.  

The conditions are different but the feelings are the same.  The sound of crunching wet gravel underfoot, the cascade of settled rain from a disturbed spiney tendril of vine-maple.  It is not about forgetting how, it is about the innate sense of touch and smell.  The analytical brain shuts off and the animal brain takes over, measuring depth and metering out sense and strength.  


Waiting to breathe.  Filtering thoughts through a severe moment of intent.  Speckled light plasters the lower part of the wall once more.…

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