I come down here, early on a sunny afternoon, having slept til after 11, a tick past mid-August, to burrow into or out of my time, with a thermos of coffee and a fried egg sandwich, to consult them in communion. To catch the cut edge of scents/sense, and to dream the philosophical dream. I come again to consult the very grass I sit on; to consult the dandelions, those scavenger flowers, bohemians; sunshine beggars in the banquet-hall, to consult the clouds rolling over the northern hills, or the blue sky cathedrallae, pixillate shining minutiae, effervescence of Vision; to consult the sun Southing, the young women sunning. Out again to consult the open oracles of streets and racks of apartment blocks, and to swiftly glance at human faces, those inscrutable open buds of the zeitgeist. I come out again to consult the oracles of crows on Delphic telephone poles, the oracles of sun-sparkles, ever sweeping the years of diamonds. And the deep green and the deep blue blows every cover on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I consult my own gravity, my own proportions--as a surgeon washes her hands or a stone-worker his stone--regularly I wash my soul on the open land and the open streets, among trees and the personalities of days by weather.

A protean protein-based biocomputer, tending to the personal-universal out at the end of May, smells, sniffs at things. My back loosens up, becomes supple, I laugh old laughter, cry old cries--as oxygen floods through my system--my four brains, my time-roots: even through a scarcity economy's dicta, of "work ethic" inseparable from the subliminal descriptions of certain ages--I am in my 30s--I am a child who has hoarded a mountain of things--in the years ahead absorbing the overarching and labyrinthine "historical" influences--weaving them into my magic carpet (whose weaving is a flight) with the influences of yellow broom blooming, an extraordinary, superordinate touch of young daughter Earth in the May Spring breeze--and the sun--no rot in its great fruit. Always fresh and always oxygen rooted in the solar fire.

Can you hear the wind of the entelechy? That carries the philosopher into and out of her philosophy--carries her as sail filling with story--her boat too, her craft "loaded in story"--from philosophy to story--and on to song--on too to the bliss of silence.

The wind of the entelechy is blowing among the archetypes! Its subtlest touches with absolutely gentle, absolutely balanced fingers enter the deep bruises of the intellect--and emotions: use subtle influences to heal. Oxygen fires my blood! The bee is on the flower. The blood wins crushed grass, blowing perfume, hot sun--expands glands, loosens the bud's gums and resins: smoke from boat smokestacks and woodstoves; exhaust from gas engines, exhalations of enkindled Mesozoic forests with their dinosaurs. The joyful smell of new turds on the forest floor. Fir and cedar odor. Clean, fresh edge of water-scent. Sea-rot, stink of seaweed. Long smells of the salt chuck. The deep, dignified smell of sweat under my lover's breasts. Goodness, warmth in the smell of her vulva. Hot coffee, juicy plums and apples, oatmeal on the stove in a pot, popcorn and salt: all these enter with the birds and the word-signs of bards that fly or are stone or star or the ardor of rot as they have rotted, and one morning I will be ripe and rich enough to rot.