No Third Wheeling [super pack]

 Superspecks and saturated wayfarers. 
"No Third Wheeling" 
05/15/2021 is what the camera date says.
An extended photo packet and word writeup

Write a sonnet, then.
Heaven to me, is the Endless Rails.

Old stayplaces, quick-camps have washed up shoes and cloth,
up to the railsides in debri. Some people's old camps flooded. 
No meddlers seen or anything. 

A Green Heron patrols these parts. 

Eveidence that being conscious every now and then during the daylight
sort of pulls up gratitude to pull up and condense day dreams. 

Green Grey Rust Center Rust Grey Green

Commemorative floral spillover. Right to mid-center as a desired wallpaper. Nothing 
but those color mixtures all patterned into a room where the sun makes it through the
window angle.  Some house, reserve, to set up microphones and do one's living thing.

All this time later realizing that what was normal to you then
are things that nobody could believe. 

I'll go this way
I'll do my own thing
Everything else is
Foolish professionalism stumbling, tangling.
It's a little bit insulting, those with press-on scars
like to whisper along about how far comes far.
Instead there's ancient bones, there's sacramental wood
by a price of getting there which you see makes you feel good.

This is the tree of Constance
with a DNA stick stuck up to the Centre.
There are sandy shores upward at the backdrop
that feel hot as hell under shoeless, sockless feet.
They're gentle grounds in the shade, but keep your
barefeet moving and hopping in SummerFire.
But back to the Tree: it's a Staple when kept as a centrepiece
in the frame of walking, approaching, considering its specialties. 

The Primordial Mind and it's Centre Seed. 
A colossal brain-route stem, here. 
The Muds of Mankind. Everything vast
before this "Modern Age." 
I'm satisfied and stand here. The colors and textures represented
closely to how it really was. Even with the sunlight burning,
and back straps burying a beginning into the shoulders,
with hours more to be further.  
This imprint of several stacks of lives, that russet mud water,
to tree-bark middle grey. Mossy green like the "New-Brain,"
kind of a layer-set of collective memories stacking into the present.

There's all sorts of cool off spots for a while.  Take whatever ones are worth it. 
Bringing out the reality of the blue-green mud colors.  & the boney tough outlay of tree piles.

Having to go the rest of the way at that point.

Fossils. probability to stack enough together to make a stone house. Several other descriptions 
& prose to the same picture, lost or flowed into different avenues.  Just something new each time,
like the ways these embed to each stone, broken off from a larger entire wall of fossil embedded.
Some whole prize and gallery when touch and sensation, texture, heat and formation is given
that time to be honed in on.  
None of the concept traps there of proving or unproving human identity, drama games, 
no dramatic hassle of that DMV-type reality or airbrushed faces of news outlet rumble.
Closest thing you get to such around stone galleries on the groundway are booze bottle
shards washed down stream. Some as flesh cutters and skin-tearers, others smoothened
like chapel glass, no terrific edges like how modern religions became defenseless, 
from Vikings to those whose generosity and charity became an attribute to be what would
do themselves in. 
Harshness of some stones, a heavy outside where gems live within.

Launchwramp & chiseled bone, with a Chaga-looking blunt woofsoft at right.

Breeze picks up. Learned some ways with this Nikon to mainstay the
sky as well as the foreground.  Content and still somehow prefer
the bunkier, older Canon though. In a future I'll upgrade to a high-end Canon
with traditional lenses, not an electronic zoom lens. & have a satisfaction
of both those zones.  Probably walking barefoot up this streamway,
going slow, and slow slow slow. Bruise indents of stone shapes
but saving otherwise keeping sneakers on and having some supersoggy trek
miles and mles back when after shifting from the creek back to the railway.

I went up to cut through some dry and in a clutter of broken trees and 
all sorts of wooden tangle in the sunlight was this black and red and yellow spider.
It was immense and demanded this appearance of power but also toxin-like threat.
The pace and tangle of shoulderstraps with water, camera and gear all mixed,
and I  saw the sunlight through its strange web, and wondered of stepping along
near scorpions anywhere else. Or seeing alligators in some other region. And like

if it was any of those situations just minded my own. Not even unharnessing the camera
to get a photograph.  Leaving itself as really a secret. That wild spider legend,
existing in its own world of an entirety of mainstay. It's place in mugwort and broken sticks.

Most adventures or journeys have "that place" and sometimes in a single roam "that place" comes
up more than several times. Like when you walk too deep into bramble and just have to fight
and push your way through. Sometimes wondering which direction to even head to get out.
At least you could see infront of you around here and know which way to head. 
But you really had to take a first step and power through to get to some clearing,
then appreciate finding a flatway again.  But there's no denying some gnarly clumps
and twisting thickets are going to be a part of the pathway.

The slightest light stone

Foreground and background shifting opposites into a merging.

Rhyming up mud rust. Some conveyance to be spit up the reverse way of the lake by miles now.

Back onto the rails, the leftside has a new pond that stays pretty permanent now. Have seen
turtles, wood ducks, all sorts of new habitation. Almost a mile and a half past where all the tourists
and new hipsters and whomever will be kind enough if they want to squeeze whereabout information
from you. Otherwise if not then some saturated and burlap gleam. 
Between here and there is typically the peace-point. 
Like usually no one gets lost this far-away out really unless they know why they'd 
want to be this far-away out.     Who knows. I tread this spot at 3:15 in the morning sometimes,
treated with moonlight beams once or a few times.  The nightlife sounds really take off and this
kind of lift-through into the air of a cool breath or cool chilly breeze from the ponds is something
you know if you've felt it.  You wonder  about the time make-up to be on a bicycle at the highway
a little further outward, how it can save you an hour. But having the patience and pace for this
pathway at night alots some introspection at least and is one of the last handfuls of places
to have that visit to the psyche at night to turn up fable-tales or allegories and
mysterious weird tall tales.
Of the embryo of night-nature at least.

Details of that moosh of the new marsh. 

Old railbeams, some concrete. Places for some to mark signs of mankind. 
A portraitfest of nature's wet and dry.  
Exciting to me at least than some people's fashion-shoots. As intimate at least.
Not everyone sees it that way but it makes more sense for me  and I don't need a release signed.

It disappears into the sky. No lost house pets here, only strays
confident in the direction on an "only-found."  Turns from
stick figure rendition into a thicket of real.  

The most parallel thing to do at the time. There's always some post a mile or less out
that looks like walking people.  But it's a post or some railroad sign. & the back is turned, here,
from the direction that we're headed on this one. 

Makes me think of a turtle's textures.

See the days come to count how many months have passed New Year.  

There's this divot filled with water I would never drink out from. But the reflections are always a harbinger to be photo enthusiastic.

With a little bit of time and  a patient society, less eager for momentous gratification, satisfaction can
be brought in by even the slopes and meeting grounds of linework and geometry of nature's bundling together.   It frequents the calmness to skry and is a daydream process that begins not for the reason of having to distract or be lost from a moment, but for the conductive and productive choice to read into a nonstrict imagination. 

The little island of rusty/russet is satiating and the actual greyblue sky means there's hope.
Even better than hope is that it's a present example of beauty.  and it's not a sloppy balance with
the rails up through the centre; it actually works out. 

The WishBone that has been steadfast in a staying.  Almost a mile
and a half already jumped by. And some time to bring out a trail-bar
to eat, and to glug from the portable water supply. Nothing much
repels from the ableness or contendedness of stopping here. 
It's a damn fine place to stop, with the naturally constant stream at the
back of this viewpoint, and straight ahead, the expanding swampland
usually with some sort of wildlife to check in on.  

Wishbones of Immortal Integration

Exposure of the railtrain I would see some 7 minutes after this stop at the wishbone branch.
It moves its way underneath it like a bridge, like some old movie scene transport,
or  a fantasy movie's ability to encourage the mind's eye dream.  
When life commends a person's search to express Nature's Truth, this can be an 
enthused print.   What world might I stand in when this is not good enough.
It is surpassing, for that at least it calms me, and has me feeling well that a feeling
of it is captured.  It was made and worked through, that nature allowed it.  No dazzling
added on or no promises for what it is not. That magic is still promissory to be tapped in to.
That the image could not have been, but here it is & something good for the mind
comes to a living when looked at.  That for myself is enough. There's nothing wicked
or of lying or deceptive about it, and yet it exists in the modern world.  Etch it into permanency. 

The meals were light.  This and  a few trail bars were it. Peel and walk. OCD about sticky fingers,
so hop into a streamsidenear and wash the orange stick away.  

A place familiar enough to have crammed a million memories.  Also a very old train "bridge" though it is so compact it's hardly to be called a bridge.  Markings from hooligans always under this sort of overhang.  Waters clearing up this way, less of that bluegreen dusk and clearer to see trout and sometimes watersnake. 

A great casual upward turn. A real sly turn like some mathematic example.

With some hydration, 
some push of the step,
there's nothing better than it.
not that I can see.

I recall moments of survival, that are nothing to me now,
that would take up someone's life
Killer dogs and their owners, teasing while you pass by,
things like that

& everyone has expectations, hints, advice, all that kind of thing
The Right Way so far jampacked up into your eyeballs.
Can't you see, that ain't me...
Christ, I'm here to be Alive.

If a poet didn't breach the arms of madness
They ain't a Poet yet
and if they ever turn from such
They never will be one.

Bamble Bosckle Bibbivo, Spipple

*

"Bamble Bosckle Bibbivo, Spipple."
"Don't tell me things like that, not now."
The truck window then rolled up and the person who introduced himself as 'Blarghh I'm Crow' drove off not particularly in what anybody would identify as a straight line.


Actually that is far from what occurred but it is more interesting. Basically it was just, out of and in the space of nowhere which is what we refer to land left untouched and full of places where growth can occur; 'nowhere.' 
The truck stopped. There was a beer in his front cup holder immediately  identifiable. He said some things that were questionably assholish but the persona could have been met from mere intoxication so I just raised my eyebrow. Get along to get along, but also: take no guff from the smell of a skunk weed militant.


This was some sort of invasive species I detect because not more than three minutes later as I continued to walk I saw and heard another nearly identical truck stop by me only this time it was blue rather than red.
"Spipple, Bamble Bosckle Bibbivo. " 
"Excuse me?" 
I raised an eyebrow.

"You're telling that story all wrong."
"Oh, you think so.. Well why don't you go and tell it then, Mr Correct."
"Okay, Start here: He didn't say 'Spipple, Bamble, Bosckle, Bibbivo,' He said
'Spivvity Spivvity Babambo Bingo' and the second truck was green."
"Yeah in your world maybe... But we can both agree that it was getting rather questionable, how these potato-shaped people with beer in their front dash and strange spatterings kept driving by, right?"
"Hell yes it was eerie but lucky for the interested we come to find out that it was just some made up musing in a blog post."
"Oh, okay great. So in argubility of either laziness or the suggestion for the reader to muse the continuation of events or to just fracture it all together we just allow the story to cease anyway, right?"
"Right."

First, you wouldn't consider a ferret in sneakers and a hat to hold a proper argument like that in any regards but if you did, in fact, find yourself present as a ferret recites his own account of a potato-like man reciting a rendition of "Spivvity Spivvity Babambo Bingo" from the window side of a truck it would definitely be something to take excitement upon rather than to jeer.

So turning a long walk into an amusing story where photographs serve as the backbone will take over from here.

These are rather quickly approached photographs; They're simple and rushed through. Breaking away from, (even if for only several hours) cabin fever shock was delightful.
If you would rather read about Phil Donahue instead, now is your time to do so. Only you can arm yourself with whatever information you think is necessary for your sole travel (ergh.. soul travel?) If anybody asks you how many Emmy's that Mr Donahue has received in his lifetime, you will be at a confident and proud advantage to tell that person "Nine. He has won Nine Emmys." The void we may fill with information can be fed with talk show trivia. I will however be comparing the head of Tony Orlando to a rock formation very shortly, though.

 

Beavers>>Way Right. Somebody's jeans in the stream. << Way North.

Foibles were filled up into one pot and burnt until there was no hot water left and in a basket there were forgotten aspirations left by baby boomers. But they weren't babies and they certainly weren't booming any more. Some of them wandered off to become deadbeats and some of them ranked high to become dead beats. The rest didn't care or mind that children weren't being struck with strict punishment for beginning sentences with 'But' as long as the ass-end still remained in the rear.

Fossil Brain Pt II. Highway=Behind the camera lense. Fate=A long trust jump to the banks.

Asked what he wanted to be, young Siggy thought hard and responded in such a determined claim that he shifted his pointer finger to the skies if only the classroom ceiling weren't between the way.
He said "I want to be in a lifetime where I'm not asked a godamn fucking question where I decide what opportune permanent menial task I am going to perform while I still have puberty and tonka trucks yet to get through!"

"It's a..umm.. Well let me put it like this. It's a docking station between dreams. There's this weird funnel where the dreams squish and splatter down.." Obviously upset with her struggle to explain it, she stood up and stretched her arms, cracked her knuckles.. "Okay: Each day could be as fresh and re-shapable as a dream, but like some whirlpool that gets a leaf caught, we form this repeating motion where the expectation to limit done messes up that steadiness."
"Wait.." Bosco intervened.. "Are we talking Maple leaves or oak leaves here?"
"Doesn't matter, Bosco.. Damnit, we should've just gone with that Donahue route instead."
"What?"
"Nevermind."

<<40 miles that way:Airport near bird sanctuary. ^9Miles up:Civil war graves, rusty barbed fence, Salamanders in summer.

 If you zoom in you'll notice this looks just like the face of Putin.

Here:

Check it out for yourself, the resemblance is uncanny.

How much we take seriously tugs at the opportunity and bad joke to know what we can leave jokingly. Southwest:Telephone poles and mailboxes with little ducks on them. 

And when you turn your head a little to the side.. No, not that way, the other way.. Yes, that way.. Yes, it is Rikki Lake. Amazing.

There are old posted signs in the lost lands of "wheren'd'fook" and where some of the names have faded you can write "Creature of the Black Lagoon" or "Bigfoot." Taping werewolf masks to trees is probably a bit harsh, though, maybe.

Here is the legendary Tony Orlando stone. No more need be said.

This photo actually resembles Michael Jordan. Jumpman!

15 minutes backward:Turtle pond, Coyotes at night, Pile of 40 tires. 50 minutes forward: Old telephone booth buried under dirt but it's harder to notice nowadays.

Stretch your tendons before walking up that hill to the right because it strains you like spaghetti (hah hah hah) if you do not.

If the subject was being what you want to be, we can trace the opposite of what we see as a guise. The disillusionment of the 'sturdy' platform starts to dismantle when it grows clear that one of the most respected or sought after 'fancies' that makes our hearts throb and wallets pucker is to be an actor. The idea is that being an actor is the biggest accomplishment or who you want to be with the most is obviously well known.
But an actor is somebody who pretends to be somebody else.
For the most part, we strive after becoming, or sleeping with somebody who is constantly someone else.
Who decided the roles is another 'thing' but that's like arguing 98s over 86s.

Is 'reach for the sky' a plea for horror, dismay and surrender or hope, aspiration and solitude?
I'm not sure. Reach for the sky, m.f.!

We go up for quit a ways. A fat horse would become skinny if we relied on horse and buggy. Or it would die and you'd plummet backwards quickening and quickening.

Brooke Shields. Hey, they weren't seen in the same place at once!

500 feet further: More hill. Chipmunk runs up a tree. Frog burps but 'can't hear it.

Peter Rabbit is waiting for the gardening season.  Citizens ass is waiting for the end of tax season. Elmer Fudd is waiting for the gardening season. NYers are waiting for the red lights. Dock Yawner, the ski-masked antagonist, has a wrist watch waiting to be smashed.

Hills, pitch black, bicycle some years worth of nights ago.

Textures

Dogs yalping along the way.

Woodpeckers are out. The same family of them as seen in "Paige" travel tree to tree. There's a quite huge one that is very photo loathing.

Turn a silo into an apartment or a trumpet.

Squint and turn pine branches into cacti.

Poad. Doap. Opad. Dopa. Pado.

"When I steer up I want to be an apple tree so in summer shine bird beaks'll scratch my little minds."

Reach for the sky.

Kiy whole on the skye.

Edit of the image directly above.

Live, wind, from different circuits.

**



*
The PC sounded and vibrated like a runaway washer/dryer appliance down interstate 81 after the cartoon
character Jeffrey the Wily infamously smashed up pieces of the roadway with a sledgehammer in early AM.
Despite those circumstances, trying to work on a 'relaxing' piece of music and video while only
seeing fragments of frame rates during it's construction is in itself a strenuous practice of the nerves,
much like trying to force watermelons through a coin slot and then trying to speak coherently through
the crackled phone system nearby a bowling alley where the bowling pins are filled with nitroglycerin.

Now I'm not exactly sure how I feel about it. 'Gave it the most I could as for the circumstances of
this fridge with a viewing screen and  512 MB of Ram (oww.)
Fortunately all the teeth-gritting will be propelled into the non-music of the MASS CONFUSION
(re-actionary) video. (Re-Action as in taking all of the frustration/alienation of a consumer society
and pointing it into one block of creation.) 'Not exactly healthy to 're-act' (Dillute) rather than act
(Create/grow) but neurotic muck builds otherwise, much like how Jeffrey the Wily goes frothing mad and
attacks the highway as a means of release.

The, ummm, song is from early 2011. The video pieces are remnants of what weren't used around the time
of putting together Paige's Dragonfly. This all seems vastly boring to assume anyone would want to read
about. Who the hell knows what they're doing? Those that do not plan.

 ** These images from "a walk" have been added to the "Part Four" gallery.