"I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom. I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients." Gustave Courbet

01 January 2026

Something.


FIBBER

My birdwatching friends tell me, “You’re always seeing birds that don’t exist.” And I answer that my eye seems to change nearly everything it sees and is also drawn to making something out of nothing, a habit since childhood. I’m so unreliable no one asks me “what’s that?” knowing that a Sandhill crane in a remote field can become a yellow Volkswagen. The girl’s blue dress is easily the green I prefer in moments. Words themselves can adopt confusing colors which can become a burden while reading. You don’t have to become what you already are which is a relief. 

Today in Sierra Vista while carrying six plastic bags of groceries I fell down. Can that be a curb? What else? The ground rushed up and I looked at gravel inches away, a knee and hands leaking blood. 

Time and pain are abstractions you can’t see but you know when they’re with you, like a cold hard wind. It’s time to peel my heart off my sleeve. It sits there red and glistening like a pig’s heart on Grandpa’s farm in 1947 and I have to somehow get it back into my body.

Jim Harrison

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