1. The wooden slats I call shelter are a thatch, a barn, a quiet cross over my heart. A needle can be the difference between a padding of straw blocking the rain over my head, and wandering. Do you know … Read More
The wooden slats I call shelter are a thatch, a barn, a quiet cross over my heart.
A needle can be the difference between a padding of straw blocking the rain over my head, and wandering.
Do you know the expression about home?
Let me just say this.
I weave my hands into a roof and move on.
I hang my iron pan on a nail and follow the path of my mind.
Ask god to dry my earthen floor.
You have it wrong. We nomads are always home.
Our search is not like the search for a child who fallen inside of the toothless earth.
Our search is like a smell. It pulls itself up from the ground lingers, and becomes memory.
Come climb my tower and listen to the ghost of Babylon.
I have always wanted to wake up inside of the sky.
Salvage pipe, steel pole, concrete, sea shells, found bottles.
Nothing can knock me down.
This new world is made of heavy posts, beam frames, wooden nails, wattle, and daub.
The first thing I learned to do here is steal a piece of dirt and call it land.
The only thing to remind me of who I am is my stove.
Be it ever so humble…
There is no way to prevent a wall from wandering.
Without a roof, the poles want to cross their legs and dance with the trees.
Who can blame them for wanting to go home?
Make your window from a tar barrel.
Remember, our first shelter was the sky
My landscape is how I choose to live.
The most essential ingredient is fire.
All else is possible.