August 26th, 2015: Day 5
My day is filled with music and sitting and typing. As I wear my headphones, two adolescent doe wander through the campground. One of them, who I learn later is named Buttons, creeps closer and closer to where I am sitting.
Her muscles quiver, even though she's the smallest of the deer I've ever been this close to, I can't help but think about those tiny hooves breaking my glasses as they club my head in. And she's just thinking the same thing, only I would do something mysterious to her, that she wouldn't understand. But I am also the same shape as the other animals who give her food. Our noses are just about to touch.
Later on in the day, Genie and I do laundry and talk to the caretaker manager people who I hope we see when we get to Coos Bay. Strawberry plants are potted up in their truck, I talk to the husband while Genie gets into a great conversation with the wife. I listen to his stories, and an interesting opinion about the pipeline.
Since it is a little to no walking day, I put my feet up, play some music, and try to see how much writing I can get done. Emmalyn, Alex and Dana head into Keno to use the interwebbed system of tubes. I probably type about three-sevenths of day two.
This poem I will have written later next week, but since it is a rest day. . .
Jesse had a name,
It was a claim to the framing.
Toni didn't care,
About their victims and their chronic shaming.
The only tale told, older than dirt, than Earth,
Older than their scolding. . .
Is the one written in knotted words.
But it is the word.
Spoken in a loud, crowded and boisterous,
Lidded and lustrous, fickle and prescious,
When it all collapses,
Which isn't what's happening,
But when it is all collapsing,
Into a still point in time,
I will be resting.
Because what's happening isn't what's happening,
Because anything can be happening.