SIGHTING!

Sitting here waiting for the sad songs to pull me under and away.

I had thoughts earlier:

- Fair-headed men give me the creeps.
- Sing to me, O entranced skinny-pantsed henna-head!
- You are the crown jewel in my museum of freckled skin.

Also: the darling neighbor, the caregiver, spending a sunny afternoon with his girlfriend. What had they intended, and how had they ended up there? Also, will he recognize me next time?

* * *

I oughtn't fake it (though I do). This is my natural state. Much of the rest is sham, or habit. I am not the productive person you might see, but an escapist -- a beast, an evolutionary dead-end, one easily entertained within his distracting monkey brain. Those little artistic strivings: best when they create something that feels like cosmic order. But always a refuge. I believe strongly in the chance of this mess -- yet I waver, and your gods are proof of a more steadfast escapism.

* * *

Like other refuges that may feel more real: constantly shifting bodies under four blankets; the arm that goes underneath, whose hand is always there waiting; best of all perhaps the fitting feet. (I was truly suspended for those years.) You are the most cosmic and the most real, and thus the least like all these constructs. I talk to you in the babble of the idiot rocks, afraid to use two-footese -- you simplify your own language to be understood.

* * *

Even still I torment you:

2010.10.09.12:45.36 Finally! After months and months of search. And day started so unpropitiously: woke with strange hunger. Ate breakfast bar. Could not see peaks for fog. Disoriented. Took samples at noon and began trek back. Suddenly, 100 m to N had a sighting. Froze on my spot as they approached, then passed. Seemed almost not to see me, or indifferent. Took out journal to mark sighting -- pen to paper and absorbed in writing when felt presence. They were 1 m to right. CURLS! And their eyes were looking right at me.

* * *

Again: this is not the fake me but the less-fake me.