We’re not responsible for other people’s stories. Their interpretation of events.
Play roles in one another’s lives, true. Together we create the Event. We played those roles in the past. And now we act these, always shifting. I saw you being there rather than here. Maybe they saved us from the bear, the angels. Still on the trail. What do you think of the other lakes so far? Equally glorious. Breathing Crater Lake, Heart Lake, Castle Crags, Anza Borrego, Death Valley, Sequoia, Kings Canyon, Echo Lake on Mt. Desert Island.
Loving the forever you go: Okay, this or that lake? Fuck it, I love water, quest, adventure. Also, retreated from a summit attempt in a blizzard high winds zero visibility. Good call, life person, for all dudes living. All right, I experience this lake and that lake, Mt. Richardson and Mt. Lassen. Seeing the equal of the All.
This is fair: accept the possibility of different versions of the event.
Assess the extent you want to merge your narrative with theirs, as a shared outcome. What role do you aim to play with an angel?
Exactly.
But not saying - as none can - that’s where we’ll be forever, with insight, persuasion and the conviction to make the thing happen. Willpower, grace and flow to insist the thing into being. Friendship, calm, joy - tell me you don’t want these. Look out there, across the water from this cliff. Precarious. Do you see that buoy in the darkness, there in the distance, directly underneath Mars? I do. There’s the light, the always one. Every day you see them, demonstrating. The way to march, cosmologically. As the place where the mind convinces the self of beauty, and releases spirit. Becoming Being.
Represent the monkey-person having set aside all other versions, with the weight of character, freedom and belief. Power to stand in the wind, as the Actual, and let that speak for itself. We let it fly, heads back, arms held wide, spreading for flight.
What role do you play with an angel.
Shh. The miracle of Lassen Bear, not the suffocation. Love this lake and this mountain. Already the dream. This place is our cabin on a lake in Maine, our Vermont farm, that stone house in North Kingstown on a hard wind bluff. Again, the buoy’s light skimming water merging with Mars. Not trying to be gorgeous or sing-song - happened, both reflecting across the cove in a straight line, mixture without deviation, from heaven to eye. On the rocks in Maine, knowing that convergence. Don’t always but promise to try. I swear to labor for the light that merges heaven and sea.
