divest yourself of yourself

in the morning, the late november sun had melted much of the snow. and i was craving solitude. it's important to be alone with the world, alone but not lonely, sometimes, to stare back into the eyes of the vertiginous sky, pale blue, frosted with dust, pair on pair, consuming each other silently, hungrily, peacefully.

i called my old professor from the university to borrow her tent. we chatted briefly, and she told me she'd drop it off. everyone was still asleep in the apartment when i stuffed the tent and some supplies into my car.

alone, i drove north, hoping to just... be. to be amidst the open, crisp air and clean flowing streams, to sip tea by the fire, and to admire the jurassic upheaval and jutting buddhas of endless and beginningless time. i drove, letting whatever songs the radio decided to unfurl, elevate my sardonic humour.

smashing pumpkins? yeah, man.
some shit i don't know? yeah, man.

the landscape whipped by, bony with the death of impending winter. there were some leaves barely hanging, creating a sparse mosaic against the highway. i reached new hampshire, and the terrain became rockier. an hour later, i passed a train depot to the right, and suddenly six inches of snow plumed the landscape. it was as if i was dropped into the quick cut of a film along the zurichsee, the gastro tram ascending the snowcapped mountains of a foreign land, dusted white. i drove up into the mountains, about 3,000 feet high, until i found a spot suitable to set up camp. i backed my car into an enclave on the side of the mountain. it was necessary to clear the snow off a plot of land for the tent. i got to work, set up the tent, and then went to look for firewood. i had to get the fire started before the sun set. i found some partially charred logs in an abandoned fire pit up a ways and brought them back. it took a while to get the fire going with the wet snow all around. but as the fire began to blaze, i lit a smoke, and admired the earth, the native earth of thousands of years ago, feeling devoted to it all like john muir.

a hawk swooped overhead. angels' wings flapped, and the adagio began, cross, recross, conifers shook in the fluffy tempest. the wind was picking up.

i hurriedly chopped an onion and put it in the pot with water, rice, beans, and some cheese. it cooked nicely and i ate it as the sun set. the crescent moon veiled the snow in a dull turquoise... beneath the starry veil of far-off africa... the temperature was well below freezing, and i had no idea how i'd get to sleep. i had three sleeping bags and three layers of clothing on when i climbed into the tent as darkness ascended. it was still early, and i thought of everything that was happening in the city, and everything before, all the technicolored streamers i'd hung over the gaping black, all the crazy adventures, mad loves, soft-bound books, and now a new a cosmic brightness, if only i could unlock her and peer...

the wind howled. i tossed and turned all night, not getting much sleep. i was covered ten times over... my feet were numb. the wind billowed. it was maniacal. i wondered how the indians did it.

at the blush of dawn, i rose to a raven ca caing in cold, cold morning. i started the fire, and boiled instant coffee. the sun illuminated the frosty azure. i let myself thaw a bit, and then snuffed the fire and found a trail. lighthearted, i trudged, something other than what they called me...