Out of the chopper, into the now-working cookshack stall to shower off cheapness in the day, small to large C. That blackberry bush is a braggart in its blackberry.

Facts, cold cut: up first to be alone at the bench-table, chronically shrinking away from close encounters with other faces, especially talking out. Roast beef, cheese, lettuce, cucumber, tomato, banana, peach. Breakfast: coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, French toast, hash browns (this is the North Woods)--taken outside the cookshack. Kimo, a dog-friend visits, wriggles and wags friendliness.

Silence out on the mountainside. Accompanied by rush of valley-river in resonance corridors of riverside trees. Still, black trees modeling season-time. On the planet as it enters stately into the sun's jurisdiction, radiant light-sport for a moment splendid on that mountain. Heart-fulls, lungfulls of sunshine air, blue sky in sun-filled woods. Inner doors, windows, open finally always to the great warm sun.

Was "actuality" the first taboo? Ontology in feeling, or its sensual fullness because of birth (or earlier) trauma (thou must not Be)? The writer's constant longing for words as "boiled surgical instruments": power of differentiation--Logos, "The Cutter." A paraclete in all regressions, abaissements: not to "change" the past, although everything always changes--but to discern it in particulars: to differentiate within it. That is to sow spirit--broadcast (it). True figure, the formative lines of tree against blue sky, esp. black (archaic, bold, essential, cartoonlike) tree. Clean-cut. The "clean-cutness" of it valued by a projector behind the eyes. The careful watcher merits distinction.

Under a spectacular starry night with Caitlin, Mars rising red in early Autumn in the north woods, and large just where the swollen bloody "menstrual" full moon rose a week ago, "catching," a scholar once said, "a projection of all the sunsets of the earth," and the pulsing red glow of distant forest fire.

Morning and afternoon helicopter ride: the joy of it, the heart uplifting. The excellence of early autumn morning air, a sprite-minutiae at every interstice (hanging fire, hanging water). Thoughts about mixing categories: the matrix-transmission assembled out of life, which includes, richly, literature of all sorts. Are we what we eat? We are as we have been matrixed. Contexted. The precious or demonic setting which is to be revealed as precious--and the very naming of this matrix: Summer sun in the forest draws the soul (world) through old stories and storyland roads to receive itself in Storyland. I am in my story.

Sitting in the morning sun on a cat-road up from a parked blue pickup, autumn ecstasy caught in the lungs, deep in the richness of the sun, pointing, directing radiant ecstasy through the works, through the pains, anesthesias, suppressions, ravens, devils, burn-plots.