Up at 6 in bright sun--waking Jenny who shut off her alarm and went back to sleep. A quick soaping and hosing down in the tub; cooking wheat germ-and-spice-coated liver, onion rings and broccoli--putting it in my plastic box secured with rubber bands, and that in a plastic bag with a twist-tie. Making coffee--filling a blue thermos and having a cup at home as I get ready to go out. Seeing Jenny off about 6:10. Deciding not to take my little "personal portable" and tapes--none I particularly wanted to hear. Tying my coat on my rat-trap and swinging out onto the sunny streets under the bright green-leafed trees.

My calling is to exalt! Never you mind! I heard it across the distance from my soul to my body. That distance of purgation and scouring. And of hilarious creation. And of emotion through a proper vessel/instrument in full strength, vast subtlety and natural beauty: the delivery of the myth-world up in music and music-words, drawn by some ineluctable and marvelous entelechy. This on $350 a month from the fat of North America, in the free garden of earth amid big magnolia blossoms filled to the brim with sunshine, atop grass sharp-green and soaked, tipped and hung with tiny sun-lumed crystal balls of condensation, amid much birdsong and the arising of 7 AM traffic. In cutoffs only, to be rolled and wrought by the sun, to be worked by a tree-trunk in the back and spine, to a crow's call in a green freshness of profuse bushes. With a book to read, and this one to write, rising up ahead of me. A broad open road up the high hill of summer in my thirties.

Strong, solid round muscles on my legs. Cold darkness, difficult unprocessed moments of my birth come out of my armpits in sweat, out of my forehead to cool and aireate my thoughts as they've been coming naked to the garden. The "outside world," "this" world is my aim-- living theatre--the biosphere and noosphere-- the shared visions of humans and animals expressed physically, smelled, inhaled, anointed with, eaten. Out here is where my seeds send green shoots--out here cookings in the crucible crystallize--all inspired work is testament--that much labor preceded it is immaterial. The labor must have been applied round an ear or eye attuned to know the truth when it is seen.

I became brown as a Spaniard; brown as an Indian outdoors in the sun: I know a heaven where the Virgin Mary wears sky-blue gypsy skirts, is promiscuous in her love, and her sexuality is celebrated by every god in sight. The Great Spirit: I inhaled it; re-strung my bones with its worldly influences. A four-brained, protein-based biocomputer and its metaphysical programmer today in the organic processes of nature. This dew, now sublimating though a thin crust of cloud tempers the sun, is the crushed and pulverized dust of all my mirrors--it is the dazzled decentralization of Vision. "My" vision, the "my" a conveyance process. A fly just landed on the word "cookings," and laved its hands like a micro-surgeon.

As I expand, the phenomenal world attains to a mystically beautiful conciseness--each thing has a cutting edge--whether the toy-like, caricaturesque structures made by humans, or the molecular architecture of natural structures, alive--green grass blades exposed, expressed in their supple tensional equilibriums.