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Over the Hills

June 15, 2003
10:35 pm

Today the Berkeley sun was baking hot in our little field, our small clearing filled with seekers. All breathing a thick summery stew of sweat and sunscreen and pot smoke, all inked skin and bare arms. She sang like icicles, like cold made substance as we puddled at her feet. She shook fists and her small body seemed to fill up, expand with all the outrage until she was bigger than anything. As we melted she spurred us to rage, to fight, to fuck, to change the world. Today if we believe that we have power, it is because she told us we do.

The gift is in the telling. So powerful, the telling of something real. Why do we even bother to waste breath on all the other white noise stuff?

Here's something real he told me:

"I had that really sad feeling, and just completely randomly the title from a book of poems I used to have at one point by charles bukowski came to mind "the days run away like wild horses over the hills" I liked that book for a while back in those days that everyone has when they read the buk in highchool, but for some reason nothing of his has ever stuck with me as much as that one phrase.. its as if in some way there arent that many honestly truthful beautiful things in life to begin with and even less that I can truly understand and somehow grasp the all but intangible meaning in, and the handful that I do get are carried away on the back of a wildly receding memory with all the rest of em and then suddenly Im left alone here waiting in some kind of perpetual dusk.. why am I always watching those days recede into the distance, how come I never turn around to see them coming, and why do they always run right by me, &never stop or stay for some coffee?"