above and God peeking through.
And then the rumble. The shaking that followed of thunder no one can know unless they feel the power of the waves hit the body. And you feel it pass through you. The electricity in the air and the first heavy drops of rain hit the parched red clay and soil. Because the sun and air will suck the water back. And the earth with suck it down. In seconds it can leave.
The heavy drops hit the creosote, and the lightening cracks electricity into the being, It fills every pore and ignites every sense making one puny. A bug in the universe. I see the riverbed start to flow, maybe six inches from a trickle in minutes. Trudging to the center of the riverbed I sit and let the warm rainwater envelop me. It pushes harder and rises. I wait. Now I know why I came here and I wait.
Soon it pulls me down the wash as desolate earth becomes river and life. Soon I am pushed and thrown about. The water rises and pushes. I tumble. I smash against the rocks and I do feel pain. This is something I have learned to experience now. I hear my body smash against the boulders and I feel the bones crack. I do struggle to upright my body but I am tumbled over and over. Swimming is useless. I am a discarded action figure in a storm drain. But I look up in time to smile, to see the flash flood of an easy ten foot rush of water. The flash flood has pushed ever loose tree, every bit of refuse the desert can muster, bones, and beer cans, and tires, and round rocks, they all smash into me with the glory of a freight train and the rumble of a hurricane swell wave.
And there is no longer a distinction between reality, DAY, NIGHT, or travelling now. I walk and I see. The fear and anger are gone. I feel no more frustration. As I leave the worry and anger, I become more aware and less aware. I know what walking the sleep is and I can feel the terror of being sucked into another’s consciousness, but now I accept it. I don’t fight the horror anymore as it will come. It might be my pain, it might be someone else’s. I used to shake and fight. I used to writhe in agony pulling myself from another’s, and then I stopped. I cannot not walk the sleep because it will happen. But I can gnash my teeth and struggle out of it. Awaking to a place I do not know. And just walk. Just wander. I no longer question a pull or call.
A reason for going where I do not know, nor thought of going to, because it doesn’t matter. I will walk and wander where I am called. The calling is a voice that I can hear in the wind, the rain, the thunder, and the early seconds of DAY. Voice without words.
When I am not called I wander back to the San Clemente pier, or the pier at Newport, or the pier at Huntington. I stay there for however long I want to. I watch the summer filled with people, families, fishermen, dead people, and enjoy it. I know of no way to determine the years I have been here. Or the hours. Time is something of what I am not. It goes on, or it does not go on. I do not try and figure it out anymore. I did. I used to for hours. I looked at the fashions, the dress, the people, the food, the cars, the talk, but none of it gives any clue to any passage of time. And so I gave. I stopped trying to figure anything out. I am here. I walk. I feel. I smoke cigarettes and I drink whiskey. I walk the sleep. And I go where I have to go. Where I feel I need to go. And there is no anger now when I go, and there is nothing there for me.
Chapter 12
“Hey, Sam.”
“Well, look who’s back. The Prodigal. Welcome home, son.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
He laughs and lights a Camel. A bottle of Jameson’s whiskey sits on the counter half empty.
“Getting the drink on, ehh?”
He tosses a pack of cigarettes to me. “On the house, kid.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Shhh, not too loud.”
I light a Marlboro red and drag hard.
“Yep, took me a bit.”
“Yeah, takes a bit.”
“What’s new, Sam?”
He laughs now and it seems very real. A good
And then the rumble. The shaking that followed of thunder no one can know unless they feel the power of the waves hit the body. And you feel it pass through you. The electricity in the air and the first heavy drops of rain hit the parched red clay and soil. Because the sun and air will suck the water back. And the earth with suck it down. In seconds it can leave.
The heavy drops hit the creosote, and the lightening cracks electricity into the being, It fills every pore and ignites every sense making one puny. A bug in the universe. I see the riverbed start to flow, maybe six inches from a trickle in minutes. Trudging to the center of the riverbed I sit and let the warm rainwater envelop me. It pushes harder and rises. I wait. Now I know why I came here and I wait.
Soon it pulls me down the wash as desolate earth becomes river and life. Soon I am pushed and thrown about. The water rises and pushes. I tumble. I smash against the rocks and I do feel pain. This is something I have learned to experience now. I hear my body smash against the boulders and I feel the bones crack. I do struggle to upright my body but I am tumbled over and over. Swimming is useless. I am a discarded action figure in a storm drain. But I look up in time to smile, to see the flash flood of an easy ten foot rush of water. The flash flood has pushed ever loose tree, every bit of refuse the desert can muster, bones, and beer cans, and tires, and round rocks, they all smash into me with the glory of a freight train and the rumble of a hurricane swell wave.
And there is no longer a distinction between reality, DAY, NIGHT, or travelling now. I walk and I see. The fear and anger are gone. I feel no more frustration. As I leave the worry and anger, I become more aware and less aware. I know what walking the sleep is and I can feel the terror of being sucked into another’s consciousness, but now I accept it. I don’t fight the horror anymore as it will come. It might be my pain, it might be someone else’s. I used to shake and fight. I used to writhe in agony pulling myself from another’s, and then I stopped. I cannot not walk the sleep because it will happen. But I can gnash my teeth and struggle out of it. Awaking to a place I do not know. And just walk. Just wander. I no longer question a pull or call.
A reason for going where I do not know, nor thought of going to, because it doesn’t matter. I will walk and wander where I am called. The calling is a voice that I can hear in the wind, the rain, the thunder, and the early seconds of DAY. Voice without words.
When I am not called I wander back to the San Clemente pier, or the pier at Newport, or the pier at Huntington. I stay there for however long I want to. I watch the summer filled with people, families, fishermen, dead people, and enjoy it. I know of no way to determine the years I have been here. Or the hours. Time is something of what I am not. It goes on, or it does not go on. I do not try and figure it out anymore. I did. I used to for hours. I looked at the fashions, the dress, the people, the food, the cars, the talk, but none of it gives any clue to any passage of time. And so I gave. I stopped trying to figure anything out. I am here. I walk. I feel. I smoke cigarettes and I drink whiskey. I walk the sleep. And I go where I have to go. Where I feel I need to go. And there is no anger now when I go, and there is nothing there for me.
Chapter 12
“Hey, Sam.”
“Well, look who’s back. The Prodigal. Welcome home, son.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
He laughs and lights a Camel. A bottle of Jameson’s whiskey sits on the counter half empty.
“Getting the drink on, ehh?”
He tosses a pack of cigarettes to me. “On the house, kid.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Shhh, not too loud.”
I light a Marlboro red and drag hard.
“Yep, took me a bit.”
“Yeah, takes a bit.”
“What’s new, Sam?”
He laughs now and it seems very real. A good
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