keep the wild inside

The airplane screeches all of 50 feet down the runway before it stops. The Captain tells us we need to wait for a minute or two. For what? We take off and I swear I'll never get on another one of these metal coffins again. In the galley by the toilets I see a fishbowl view of the scars lacing New Mexico. Red, orange, white, tantalizing. I am in the fishbowl, trapped and limited, looking out. Escape is there beneath me. I must leave the Angels, get out there with the coyotes.

I write my sonic pal in Santa Fe, and propose a project in an absurd way. And then I research milk and how wicked it is to drink, and remember that I promised myself to set up this Ecocide link, to balance all the prettiness of the world with the sobering ruin brought by our needs for creature comfort.

My quilt in Lalaland is delicious. We are 65 degrees at night, while the rest of the country bakes in a shockwave. The desert is cooling me as well as calling me. How can I live with this tear of my mind: comfort for the skin and tongue, at the cost of what pain for whose soul and bones? I have to get closer to natural phenomena. Cactus collections in Laurel Canyon do not cut it. Taos continues its tug, unseen. I am already a hermit among angels. Can I possibly withdraw more?
 

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