There is something more hands on, more pleasing to certain parts of the brain in sketching. The new toy in the last few weeks is Skyfied Scratch Paper Art Set, the kid learns and I learn, everybody learns.
The kid holds up a tiny feather and says, look treasure!
Old stories get sorted through.
I have not done much magick in a long time, but now that I am retired, who knows. Art is always with us.
I finally went over the ground where the old Railroad House used to be. It serviced the line workers back when the trains were still in operation. How it wound up in the hands of the local counterculture after sixty-nine I will never know. I remember the pig roasts.
It is now a little caravanserai on the green way, with picnic tables and a receptacle for plastic bags and dog poo. I was hoping for the twenty-dollar gold piece that I lost in a past life. I found six cents by the picnic tables with the metal detector. I found four cents just walking back to the rig.
The most interesting find was historical. I found the die cast metal side for the magazine of an old cap gun. The kind that looked like a revolver cylinder.
In the tattered thatch of forest debris from old poplar, willow trees, and choke cherry bushes the area has sprouted a few pet graves. I am not sure it can be classified as a pet cemetery yet. I only found two markers, but I imagine that there are at least of a couple of unmarked graves. I do not think we are at risk of the pets coming back wrong.
The north side of Kamiak Butte between Lughnasadh and Samhain, it is still three weeks before the autumn season starts on the solar calendar. The forest floor is turning to dry yellows. The trails are dust.
The caterpillars are spinning silk in the trees.
The light is growing harsher in its highlights of the gray.
The harvest is rolling up outside the shadow of the tree line.
A withered and brittle field of chickpeas is left standing. I break open a few pods to see how the crop fairs. I can remember breaking open a few pods about ten years back when I was walking the edges of the city cemetery. I had never seen garbanzo beans in the field before. Those then were twice the size, maybe even half again that size than the ones I took home in my pocket to measure.
Found in a discard of old, rusted tin cans by the side of the road.
Some things just stand out.
The butterflies have had a long, hard season.
I have a small ambition these days, something to look forward to. I would like to live long enough, and have the virus spread somewhat under control so that I can go see Ghostbusters: Afterlife in the theater.
Hopefully I will have written something, or found something that will afford me the price of the theater ticket without feeling spendtrifty.
A drawback of cultivating a persona is that pretty soon a person starts thinking of themselves as seperate from it. Then the voices in their head start talking back. If they have manufactured more than one, it can turn into a mob of babble. It must get confusing.