Smoke Signals.

Today I bushwhacked through a wood and attempted to make a fire while it rained. Smart. During it all, I made a haiku at one point in time. I love being outside.

Have you ever gotten to that point where thought was no longer necessary and didn't matter? This is the best part of being outside. Quiet is not a factor. Quiet is in constant existence, and trees know no difference. It's fantastic.
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Wet bark rests, rain pelts,
red cedar turns deep violet
with saturation.
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Dear one where are we going?
We keep on going,
gravel road.
keep going,
traveling,
going,
fading into dirt roads
into the brush
into dust
to moss
to rust.
We go where we must.

But I can't see a path.
Wait--A bend!
And now I see that
it turns left
to a place
where perhaps a chimney
creates a warm end
for you and I.

Before this is over,
and before I curl up
in my bag and
you in yours,
we must ford rivers
valleys
and many rotting dead things
that smell green
and good.
This is the way.

Dead People.

I visited the cemetery today and took pictures. I haven't been there for about a year, which is a shame. There were tombstones resting not three inches from the base of trees. Which leads me to my next question: what would it be like to be inside the veins and roots of a tree? To have little bits of yourself spread throughout this enormous--thing? It's almost without a doubt certain that the decomposed bodies are feeding the roots beyond what the basic dirt is doing...Morbid, yet realistic thought.

But if I had to be buried, I would want to be buried under a tree.

Pirates.

Did you know that this is an epic year if you are a Somalian pirate? Their 36th hijacking this year resulted in a seize of a $100 million dollar oil tanker. This stirred up a desire of mine. I've always felt that I should've been born into a family of pirates, me hearties. I'd love to be swashbuckling.

On a different note, I've been researching a backpacking trip that I'd love to go on in the Olympic National Rainforest. More on that later...

Hats.

I'm writing haikus today, I decided. I just read four hours of John Donne yesterday and started On the Road by Kerouac...so many words crammed into such a small span of time. Yet I find myself loving how sensual and explicitly he writes for his time of the 1600's. Look him up.

I'm also realizing how much of my time I spend in the Teacup. Not that this is a bad thing...

Woman in a hat
opens tins full of smell and
possibilities.

Dang, dude. Take a look!
I spilled all my London Fog
in your teal pants crotch.

Forward I could be
or is this one of those times
where we remain friends?

Tangerine green cup
cools as the hours vamoose.
I sit, warm caboose.

That's all for today. Peace.

Tea.

What a first entry, and on such a fantastic thing.

My favorites so far include Coconut Pouchong, Framboise Caramel, Madagascar Vanilla, Moonlight Sonata, and Organic Rooibos.

There is nothing better than sitting with a cup on a day that doesn't know whether to be fall or winter...the leaves are blowing around in the street, the cars sweeping them up and setting them back down.

I highly recommend Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums...I'm sad that there are no more pages left to read.

Maybe more later.