oh

and one picture of the ocean that rb got to see right before he died

rb: one story and one poem

since i've been back, i've been finding out some very nice things about richard brautigan. one thing i found out was that he did something funny:

after a reading, several people came up and asked him to sign books for a man called beef, who was a big fan but couldn't be there because he was at work. he signs the books and a few months later he gets a letter from beef with beef's appreciation and telephone number. richard calls him--"turns out, literary folks in lincoln are having a party at beef's apartment. beef thinks it is a practical joke but is finally convinced that richard's voice is the original article, and asks r. to talk to others at the party which he does for an hour on his own dime, portraying beef as an old friend, genius,a nd all around great guy."

and then i remembered this poem of rb's i made into a terrible painting when i was very young:

insane asylum
part 8

baudelaire went
to the insane asylum
disguised as a
psychiatrist.
he stayed there
for two months
and when he left,
the insane asylum
loved him so much
that it followed
him all over
california,
and baudelaire
laughed when the
insane asylum
rubbed itself
up against his
leg like a
strange cat.

miles and miles

so we've been in a car, mostly, for sixteen days. we'll be home soon. not sure how that will feel. something happens when you get used to driving around constantly. i'm scared to be still. here are 5 of the 1600 photos i've taken.

fort collins

yesterday, i went to fort collins, which was kind of lame, but from there to the cache la poudre river, which was great. here are some things i saw while i was away (including gnome soap and my lunch):

from denver to golden on clear creek trail (or to arvada, at least)

m and i tried to ride to golden today. we ended up in arvada. here are some pictures about it.

incredibly, beckett

and it came back also to my mind, as sleep stole over it again, that my nights were moonless and the moon foreign, to my nights, so that i had never seen, drifting past the window, carrying me back to other nights, other moons, this moon i had just seen, i had forgotten who i was (excusably) and spoken of myself as i would have of another, if i had been compelled to speak of another. yes it sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that i forget who i am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger. then i see the sky different from what it is and the earth too takes on false colours. it looks like rest, it is not, i vanish happy in that alien light, which must have once been mine, i am willing to believe it, then the anguish of return, i won't say where, i can't, to absence perhaps, you must return, that's all i know, it's misery to stay, misery to go.

molloy

fish
i had suffered for a long time from the illusion
that remembering inhibited one's experience.
now the illusion is almost my only memory--
and that i am cold and that i have been cold for
a long time and that this coldness was brought
on gradually by an illusion. yet, it is likely that i
will not be cold later. then, i will remember
something else and not this. i will have
forgotten the story to which i currently refer.
each person has her own theater. i propose this
as an exhibit or a symptom of my personal stage.

carla harryman, memory play

driving home

ellsworth, ks: a wind project. it reminds me of pink floyd. also, i'm not sure small animals should look like this. today i took one hundred pictures of the sky. and i made a lot of movies about it.

some things from the country

kansas city things