I am thinking of the spaces of the poet, the stupid Pearl, the pleasant pump, the elevens and the Russians who have inhabited the inhabitants there. And more often than I would have suspected at the time, I recall the campsite in Big Pine, before we did not go hunting for Methuselah, and find there a microcosm of life’s applicable lessons and the frivolous ones as well. It’s as if we spent a whole poetic adolescence in that clearing by the rock and with the cows and the stars and the vegetables in the fire. Heavy drunk and clear head by morning. Time does nothing because it IS nothing. Time does nothing because EVERYTHING. I forgot where I started. A spliff at waking walking out onto the deck to find the shape of a bird, and your revolutionary nonsense. Gravity always goes down, but it’s all relative to where I keep my heart and where you keep your heels. Gravity goes wherever the action is.