corvallis!

land of liquid and slumbering trees!
fleet of foot and sound of mind!
eating all manner of pizza slices and oysters!
sweet fish-shaped, corvallis, a song of songs...
to ramble through the infinite groves
the rambling length of days
and the little ants in their holes
and the quintillions ripen'd, the quintillions green'd
land of the weavers and the tillers!
of long-winded professors and peripatetic students!
land of the wind and the rain!
laid to rest and feeling kind of silly, given to writing long ideas in lengthy verse, nonsensical and demonstrably ridiculous, understated and crazy without saying, gripping eidolons in the key west of the mind, flying through the marvelous colors and salmon colored papers of the sinking moments.

Sometimes I get the feeling that I was born in a pretty how town, with up so many floating bells down, and danced my didn't and went the same, sun moon stars rain, and wish at some point that the creative forces would come together to the point that I could get paid for just sitting down and typing. I feel the motivation to do nothing much of anything aspiration in a convention job sort of sense, beyond the required washing of the dishes, but there is an idea, an inspiration that comes from the works of the great thinkers and poets of the past, that continues to draw me back to the written word: perhaps coming up with a reflection of reality that is more real in some way: or at least more real in an "I will pay you to write that" kind of way.

Visions of Cody:
Cody spend time in his room, sweating out the twisted psychedelic chords that came out of his electric guitar, when the light was gone and the ice cream had all been eaten. A thumping bass heavy sound came out of his strumming, and he managed to play chords and bend all the strings at the same time, which I'd never seen anybody be able to do. He played bluesy chords in an interesting style and was into some strange new age literature, but a thinker and a real person, of course, is anyone not real? Still, it just doesn't seem like the guitarists I hear around this town measure up at all. Still, that was Berkeley in 1990 and this is Corvallis, ....so there would be a difference, but live music is generally pretty tiresome for me anyway, at my advanced age, but that's another story.

The leaves around this town are very nice. The weather is different every day, and the bean is a quiet place and the peppermind tea is good. I remain as I am, contain'd between my hat and boots, one hand pointed out in one direction, the other adjusting the volume on the music, strolling around campus and libraries, enjoying the trees, visualizing characters, travelling around somewhat metaphorically like a cloud in the sky, but given to the idea of travel and the beauty of nature and it's myriad manifestos, denizen of the strolling walking and natural bounce and detailed element, the form of the physical demonstration, the idea of the four directions and returning, the floor and the air, and the idea that beyond the simple, there is no idea, or no idea in any region that applies to the principles of the wasting of signals, the strolling of the fish-shaped, the cradle, endlessly rocking, the fish and the form and the grain that's been scattered on the rocky ground, the last stone, forgotten, that becomes the chief cornerstone, and ...
if you had a rock, would you give him a fish?
if you had a stone, would you give him a diamond?
Despite all technological advancement and complexity, the resides on last question: what is tha nature of reality and consciousness and the mere existence of anything that can be perceived? Is reality screened through categories or is there some sort of absolute squirrel across the way from the peacock?