The more I go, the harder it becomes to return. To anywhere. There is no one at the ocean this morning. I walked by the campsites and smelled eggs and pancakes. And there were sweet Oregon cherries and watermelon. I wonder if I can go back—what purpose there would be in it—or in any other thing? There's something expensive both ways. Yesterday a woman told me to get a tide schedule and if the people refused to give it to me, I had to insist. She usually gets hers from the Hilton but I don't know where that is so I just imagine the schedule. There is a tide. I can tell that much about anything. What's before me, what isn't. How it got there is a mystery involving only itself—I have no part in that, none at all—my job remains in the thing as it is in the moment it's before me, having left all of its other places, having come this far to show up at all.
How the mind works still to be sure
You were the white field when you handed me a blank sheet of paper and said you'd worked so hard all day and this was the best field you could manage. And when I didn't understand, you turned it over and showed me how the field had bled through, and then you took out your notebook and said how each time you attempted to make something else, it turned out to be the same field. You worried that everyone you knew was becoming the field and you couldn't help them because you were the one making them into fields in the first place. It's not what you meant to happen. You handed me a box of notebooks and left. I hung the field all over the house. Now, when people come over, they think they're lost and when I tell them they're not, they say they're beginning to feel like the field and it's hard because they know they shouldn't but they do and then they start to grow whiter and whiter and then they disappear. With everyone turning into fields, it's hard to know anything. With everyone turning into fields, it's hard to be abstract. And since I'm mostly alone, I just keep running my hand over the field, waiting.