Throw yourself into an unsort of current

 Passing five orange newts along the mountainous path up, up, up.

They were so blazing in brightness that the black circular dots on their backs stood out like an ice cream hut in a desolate New Mexican desert. Against the trails they stood out even more like a blemish on a model or a sixty-toed,20-eyed,plaid-skinned gypsy moth at a boat sale. So casual and fiery, I often find it easy to sit close and watch their calmness. I'm sure they feel affectionate about a giant human-flesh creature hovering over their tranquility, leering down with an amusement worn as an expression.
Then again, horseflies are ballsy enough to attack a creature 18 times it's size, so like David against Goliath or a Smurf against a giant turtle posing as a continent, the difference of stature does not always jeopardize courage.

Days beforehand I wandered into a large tortoise near Recluse Stream.

 

 

It was, however, out of commission: Expired.
From the first photo it obviously looked as if there were a possibility of life. Yet approaching closer proved a crispiness resulting from the heat (as a Doktor's-guess.) The soil creature had unfortunately been docked. It's shell was impressive and it's age likely to have been qualified for many birthday candles. Do turtles celebrate birthdays?

Back to the Newts:
Passing newt number four and newt number five: Legs have done days of biking on a flat-rimmed, squish-tired, stuck-gear, lopsided-handle-barred bike and now a sturdy amount of trail walking commenced further flesh bending.

So at the top of the trail the view was a reward for footsteps gone trotted. 

And two hawks spun in the air. and little baby bugs harassed the skin with little baby bug bites. If there is an immunity to avoiding skin-nipping bugtagonists it is to lose them when they are not looking. That is when bug spray or yelling at them to stop are choices you would rather not indulge in. Just run. They surely won't catch you
Your efforts of escape surely won't be an amusing joke to the tiny winged things, surely to lose you, and not chomp into you the second you stop thinking you have lost the lot of them.

The wrist watch I had drawn, again, onto my arm seemed to have stopped working so it was only a guess as to how long I had been up there at the lookout. The watch said 11:48 when I started yet it remained 11:48 before I chose to depart.

There were three ways to go.

The way back down from which you came, The second way around which goes a full circle and back down to the bottom trail, and that way which you have never went before. The first two ways are trails. You can recognize, by color coded bark scribbles, how to keep from wandering off into uncertainty. I chose the third way.
I decide to go somewhere where the newts didn't even show up. Unless they were hiding. They're (un)known for that.

Some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid.

You never realize how slippery your shoes are until you decide to descend down a mountain side that is loose with leaves and topped with fine soil.
A water thermos and tripod are looped through a camera strap and the best way is to slide sitting on the ground using your shoes as boats. This was the third way.

Convincing somebody else to go with you would be more of a nightmare than the actual plummet itself.
That is why sometimes it is best to solo into adventures that would seem hellish or insane to somebody else at first glance.
Shaking up anxiety and then over-coming it or riling up the new can spark something you've never known about yourself.

But, secretly, anxious at first or bewildered by possible stupidity of the situation, I think certain people would love to get trapped into such adventures. Others I could see possibly arguing for minutes over which safe-trail to take back down.
Until you JUMP into the slide and it is either come-along with me or go back down the safe way.

some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid

Deciding to get lost, to abandon having any familiarity of anything around you... to have no choice but to become more aware of your surroundings and self... there becomes no excuse for distraction. Leniency becomes forbidden and impossible.

So I slid down and down and down. Piles of leaves with slick shoe bottoms gliding me down. I knew it was far and I knew that it was steep but it started to even surprise me "I am not at the flat Yet!?"
The stupidity of the act started to rise. Perfect. Morph that idiotness of the situation into some kind of enjoyment. 'This is a life, Okay. Going back up would be painful and a retreat."
some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid


The choice to become lost unites  memories that serve as a sort of subconscious underworld. They [memories] can re-emerge into the present and act as a shadow or an antagonist if they are not properly taken care of.
They become alive again; The mythos of hades becomes a mentality..
But also, I think, Eden can arrive when the second self is met.. As to look back at things you currently or have once feared and to embrace them and even find pleasure in those moments.

We become what we are by the ailments we avoid. One less thing to fear and shun is one more thing to experience and learn from. 

Many avoid that with comfort or formality (which even using as an example and self righteous or ignorant, sorry, it's not my life just an ego of contrast. D'oh!,) But I think once you toss yourself into those rapids you can find something desirable. Recognizing you are at a point of no return can be refreshing anyhow. I think after the first four minutes of descending downwards you I recognized 'there's no god damn way I am going to start climbing back up now.'
So then the roaming and investigation of all-that-lay-beyond begins.

That is a difference between growing and thinking you are already solidified or finalized. It becomes childish to enter a hectic or foreign situation but so much more can be learned from facing that chaos or fear and then re-stabilizing in the unknown: Searching for a wisdom of childishness. After all it was those new, surprsing moments that we entered and tested as children that brought us into the forms we accept as solid in our personalities now.

To a child every experience seems new and refreshing or exciting to the senses. Then we become punished for our curiosities but to re-establish and tamper with the patterns I think brings out that 'roamer.'
(Curious and smart enough for new tastes and idiotic and foolish enough to risk securities and sometimes even life depending on  the jumps.)

some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid. Note:Worrying too much causes worrying too much.



It eventually came to large stones predicting a leveling to change from such a long ways of sliding. Once it became flat there was a good 18 minutes of walking, in one direction, following the insight of what kind of plants were growing in groups and the hollowness of the ground versus any wetness where one may begin to sink indefinitely.

Knowledge and quirps become a cluster of rattling objects in a large cemented ball all trying to escape out of a pinhole. You, or I at least, felt that certain informations were ultimately useless. The spaces to fill an area were sometimes so novelty that you start to compare your situation to: If I were dedicated to getting completely lost without a single security, would I be able to function on living amongst all of this?
What kind of information could I trade off or could have sacrificed to look around to the Earth that surrounds me and confidently be able to say "Okay I'm going to eat this now and it's not going to kill me in the most annoying way." All of my mental stats of novelty opinions would ultimately die in that concrete rattle, being useless in self sufficiency.
Ferns okay Honey Mustard okay.
Well then ultimately you start to learn and prepare, then recognize an ass-kicking joke that tells you that the risk of gambling Earthly foods/delights may be just as fair a risk as a daily input of f.d.a. approved foods. 
 into a quick rapid

Eventually it started to get marshy.

I felt like I was in dinosaur-land and reminded myself of those Land Before Time cartoon movies. Many old memories came up being so scrambled from 'identified' and reconnected to 'wander.'
Really this was the land before time. No wall-clocks. Wondering just when the last time that it really was since a human biped had walked through these grounds.

Old friends and climbing up hills. We had hatchets and built forts. Shoes were better dirty. Lighting sears catalog bra model ads on fire and climbing to the very height of swaying trees just to get a view of which direction may cause a vigor for the limitless child. Limitless until curfew and the next school session where your curiosities are ailments and imbalances.
We'd, my childhood tribe-friends and I, would sometimes come across things like old decayed trucks in the woods and they would be like the jewelbox of treasures to cave dwellers or the satisfying grail for the seekers. Having those feelings reflect to this were another surprise from entering down that hill to the unknown, into your own self, a kind of mental key agreed upon.
Wear a long sleeve, dumbass, great idea.

Blue dragonflies circled in either direction along the entire base of the pond. Frogs near the shore set of their alarm sound before hopping in to where the soup layer of pond film quickly patched the hole into where the frogs took cover.

After hopping myself over some mud that sunk who knows how far into who knows what I found my first sign of human bipeds.

Slunk into the ground like once the bodies that who have drank them
A pile of bottles were clomped in moss like the bodies that had sank them.

and so I did what any other rational breath-breather would do (because any rational breath-breather would, upon any situation, do what any other rationalist would be known to do, which would be to do what any other rationalist would do)
and I emptied the contents down into my gullet allowing the liquid contents of the mystery bottles to merge with my innards.
(Authors note: This is either a display of fantasy and needed amusement to excite the story telling or a true event to which I had survived or the fungal possibilities have not yet caught up to effect or kill me. You decide.)

There is something about finding older things, even mechanisms of drunkenness, that light an interest of a time capsule. The absurd idea of wondering (are there absurd things to wonder about? Rebecca!??) of what somebody may think if they find a plastic coca cola bottle or a dented beer can decades from now only offers some meek embarrassment about a present generation. Though somehow the shapes of these glass bottles match that nostalgia of pretending to know the things they have seen or who may have handled them.

Also wondering how many things we own and maintain, we rely on.. What will live on to be antiques or even become uncovered or how much of it will plastically-plaster away? To find these bottles and then a piece of an old sink telling that somebody resided here allowed a feeling of seeing how all of the streams replace to new paths. Floods come through and change the regular curves and S's of ditches carved out that the water was convinced was the correct path. A calmness of carelessness then emerges. All of that yarpling about billboard signs I loathe of will only be a presence of placement as they will all dismantle.

Maybe some day a human biped will feel light footed and meander the off skirts of an old city or vegas and under the marsh and bramble discover a giant head. A giant head with a mustard-like, time-stained smile grin of a tattoo model from a once-advertisement. Small whiskey bottles will still be scattered feet below the surface somewhere. Laptops will however be mooshy smithereens with cities of data mixed with leaf crisps replaced by newer leniency or forgotten.

Bramble scramble and under a twist of grab ass thorns
The birds eat those chasy bugs and frogs cast their horns
Pass a larger pond and leave a shed of masks
Then hop eight times past more swamp slime and make it back to the tracks

The Insomnia Scriptures Pt 1: The Forbidden Zzzs

Written 04/24/2011 by Les Monstrelli

A slight exaggeration of surrounding perception forms around the base root of dreams and stock quotes. If the two were to ever mix you might find yourself buried within a pit of shame wondering how creative imagination were to be infiltrated by hopeless gambling. A certain carelessness of worry, yet chaotic sensitivity to the slightest noise guide way into realizing that the inner self is connecting to the physical being by only a frayed string of something resembling dental floss. This reminds you that your swollen lymph node glands and plaque collected teeth need as much attention as an old dog sharing the home with a brand new puppy.

Nightmares of truss rod adjustments and soggy socks swivel but are swooped away like cartoon birds circling around Top Cat's face, led to go off and bug somebody less resistant to illustrative follies. Waking up in a sleeping bag with uncoordinated zippers, you realize you're out in the middle of a field. It is started to drizzle but you don't give a damn.. You'd rather wait to give a damn for when you are soggy and surrounded, even a part of the mud puddles that were not birthed when you first lay down. What state are you in and how did you get there? You've heard the stories of people waking up to wandering bulls, in places that they did not remember entering the night before, only dragged along by a certain phasing of survival and numbed away concern of consequence.

Ideas of truth, image, quest, all seem laughable and even hunger has lost sense of desire in the bath of 'the ever drenching rest-lack' the absurdity of viewing a world of worry from the eyes of what sleep deprivation expertise torture tests would seem tame in comparison. Worry-gone in a worry-world, however. The drizzle picks up, you test to see if your feet are still working.
Hills surround.. A circle of hills. What kinds of creatures may lurk within. No cows, no bulls, not even any animal shit to slip in or mud-puddles built up from the young rain. You get up onto your feet, surprised to connect a feeling to them and feed yourself with the operation of moving them to a place of dryness before the puddles grow.

Two lovers fall into an awkward state of humility in sexual escapade, a fender bender occurs on a hesitant trek to work, an arcade machine eats 50 cents, and somebody else on the planet is in just as much of a hysterical sleepless inertia at the very moment. Count until minutes later and there will probably be another fender bender, this time from some drunk, a favorite t-shirt will be shrunk in the dryer, a man will kiss a woman with a long lost guilt in the back of his mind which will hide some truth never admitted and eventually cause a crash of irrational behavior between the two but at least they didn't get in a fender bender.

Of course, none of that crosses your mind, because by this time, on a different location of planet Earth completely, you happily reach a dry spot towards a ridge of a cavern as the hill sides grew nearer. Where you are you will just have to figure out when you are well rested enough to give a damn, To plug events together and see if this itself is not just some dream.
A flame awaits the inside cave and you care not to fumble with the zippers. They were like that since your friend gave the shoddy thing to you. Something about Plato comes up in your mind, but you figure other people must have written about flames within cave walls and then you laugh at the absurdity of finding yourself where you are and wonder the threat posed upon yourself in entering without proper etiquette.
If you're unwelcome, you'll know.. If you're to be devoured down to a bone-rattle, you'll surely know.. If you're dreaming, you'll have to pinch yourself damn better than that. You start to think Twilight Zone and raving violent goblins but only see to it as embedded images from the fantasies of writers during chaotic times. Chaos never settles, but that's a thought for after well-rest.
Take off your shoe as it serves as the worst pillow you've ever had.

Wake up, a cold breeze. Radiant smile.. It somehow happened, Batteries slightly charged, eyes kept closed. The last time it's been with such a lost collection of Zzz's was a horrid cranky town full of expensive pay phone calls pleading for escape and irritable folks with city accents hoping for your death.. But that adventure is destined for later days. You open up your eyes, see the sun from out the cavern coming from the curves of tall hills. There's a sound of swooshes in the distance.
Highway. Stream. Alright knees.. connected back to having to concern the body. Stretch, groan those human groans of "Can't stop now. I've known people nearing a lost liver who haven't stopped downing drinks, 'seen race car drivers enter the trip of coma but came back to the wheel' so you follow that stupid philosophy though it's less on base of self-destruction, follow your own feet towards that sound of a hiss.

A new hiss enters your perception as a stream enters ear-way. You think of how it is that the sound stays put once it enters in perception, right after you 'lock in' or notice it's relevance.
Dip down, find a lucky stone. Cold on your finger pads but not as much compared to the water now through your palms and against your face. Clean enough to drink, this isn't pond scum or city water.


One foot falls in jumping the rest of the stream from over a bank. Damn miscalculations. Awe well, you hadn't awoken gnawed on by cavern dwellers nor faced the despicable nightmare of truss rod adjustments just yet, so the soggy-shoes dilemma will have to be met with a collection of briers and small vines wrapped around your wet pant legs.

Car insurance signs stand tall near a thin 'highway' if you can call it that.
Thumb out, intentionally non-threatening-seeming 'I'm not going to kill you' smile on your face.
Inner admittance of 'nobody, no-fucking-body is going to pick me up. Thanks a lot, predictable, gore-filled hitchhiker murder movies.'

Somehow the sarcastically infiltrated beta version of the word 'cute' comes up as you see the wet prints of the one soggy shoe follow behind with the sloppily folded and tied sleeping bag shrugged upon your shoulder.
You get to read even more tall billboards the further in miles you have gone on and the only other traffic around had been older cars going the opposite way and one travel bus going yours.
You take your thumb and press it up against your nose blowing a snot rocket out onto the sandpaper-like road, all along following the stream sister to the roadway, that you had hopped over from coming out of your little nap 45 minutes ago.

You're no amnesiac yet trying to avoid the worry or wonder of just how you ended up here or where you are. All other memories seem to be all but escaped but at a hidden worry, an alert is set-off to 'freaked outness' when 'WAKE-UP' is glanced upon quickly on the next billboard coming up.

Jitters and quick breath, a quick second of panic mode..
A dream?
Great, you're in some mid-world and a manifestation of a cheesy sign is trying to be that 'Pinch of the skin.'

....'To our new breakfast sandwhich."

'The fuck??' you respond, wanting to backhand reality hard, or your own perception of sign, wondering the coincidence or perhaps reaction of commodity, where this phrase surely is seen everywhere, with a big cheesy smiling yellow 'M' with curvaceous feminine uppers of the shape, yet it's time and place is too appropriate for the lacking of understanding of just where all of this is.

You want to climb that sign and rip away it's paper sheet.
You stop and look up, consider it..
A car comes along, you decide not to.

Things get stranger, or less predictable.
This car stops.

Impala, 1980-something-Impala. You don't know shit about cars, you know it's a Chevy and better than most horrid regular new models.
Man stops... Dalmatian in the back seat is the first thing you notice. A red collar. You look up to the driver..
Round-edged sunglasses, a straw hat, Gillette-commercial shave, long sleeves and vest, passenger: pale-skinned 1950s hair, wrist bracelet, v-line black cut sleeve t-shirt, green eyed lady.
'Rise'N'Shine' sticker on the side back window of the car...

You're in the back being driven down the road.
Douglas.... Shannon. Douglas looks at you from the upper gape of his sunglasses in the rear view when he talks to you. Shannon tells you about how they'd both first met on the road. You admire their ability to pick you up within the mental confines of a superstitious collective, and are surprised of the dalmation's admiration of you.. Usually most dogs try to turn your fingers or organs into chew toys.
You glance over to the window sticker, place your elbows onto the sleeping bag atop your lap.
'Rise'N'Shine' Damn the awake world is weird..

"So where are you going?"