Fishbowl

I went to the temple yesterday and I was given two wands of incense and I bowed my head and prayed at the altar and asked a couple of questions. The woman then gave me a cup of sticks and I picked one stick for my fortune and she said: "Oh, this is very bad, it's not very good. Many people have fished you out of the sea and you are in a tank that is too small, you are a big fish, and now you are in danger but it is not too late."

We went to the hot springs in Oregon and I used the carriage of my ribs to bloom in the pools, I made my arms a basket aimed at catching the beams of the moon, and it was a full moon, cushioned in the sky by the fingertips of branches and the curlicues of fern fronds. As all my petals really ruffled, every cricket applauded and rewarded the sensitivity of my ears. With concentration, my hearing was invited to a new dimension of sound, where the textures were gentle. I heard a train in the distance, an ambient smear with layers of strokes and knocks, and my spine stored the sounds that my ears drank.

I am making a little hope chest in the center of me, a library of moments I can retreat to. Sometimes a swift sewage enters my musical world, and it freezes my hands for playing, and it binds my substances and I have no emotions for singing. Being in the car, all day, every day, pulsating livers cradled in seat buckets while the sunshine and salt air nudges at the car windows. Having a sound ritual and being answered with drunk hiccups and blank eyes. Roping the arcs of joy and sanctity of living, those mustangs hoofing in your lungs, and then the PA can barely burp it out. Sometimes playing live music, with confidence and steadiness, pushes the whole craft to another awesome stratum, sometimes it seems like a betrayal of what's private and cherished, and it makes me want to pluck my zither in my herb garden and keep my fingerprints off of the rest of the world.

We looked around Oregon for a place to plant our permanent garden. We jumped in the river and I cut off all my hair, Galen made me a doe. The rest of the West Coast is basking in the final dapples of summer, and the Bay Area is squatting in whipped fog, the tomatoes are struggling to redden. We played a show for our friends in a basement in Portland, I think we may have abused them, but our intentions were very good.