Baja December 20, 2020
Sea of Cortez
55 degrees and windy as fuck and overcast
Observations from 96 hours, on a beach with one other person and no one else around, with gale force winds and a pop up van.
the fishermen / divers return to shore after fighting the wind, and gut octopuses and other catches along the rocks where the sea meets the land/desert/sky. One’s wetsuit hanging half mast already. I put on cafecito as an equalizer.
The gulls ahead, waiting for their feast...
that is, if they could catch it in the wind that...
shakes our little travel pod, turbulence upon us in physicality and in emotions, digesting our choice to be here
The emotions within me, a digestion of the actual moon’s tides, apparent to us on the outside, and always forgotten somehow on the inside, in this time of the cycle
and those emotions getting real analogous to the GREAT wind pushing it all around, digesting the changes in the atmosphere, the pushing the fuss
The land digesting the travesty of man’s waste and fuss. At first sight, it is appalling. Three days in, it is a record, Four days in, it is no never mind. The water is clean. The plastic hangers are nothing but a relic. A relic or artifact, but en masse. Volume. No preciousness to these. The cacti take their time digesting these relics into sand
The longer turns of time, his longing for solitude despite his choices of companionship - the great digestion of “figuring it all out”, digestion of the heart
I sit in my blanket as he lays in his meditation, and the colors from the rising sun lap over words and thought forms like a colon digesting what is just details amidst the great pragmatic actualities. The colored lights digesting my thoughts.
The stories spurred on by the moon, the patterns that I fear most, they too are being digested, reformed, reduced into particles and dust, food for something else, regeneration.*
fish scales in piles, landscapes with the architecture of life left after the ruse of death.
Noticing: Nothing stirs in the air despite all that is strewn about. The air is alone. The estuaries have no trash. Just the desert absorbs. The birds make no mistake, and fear us like the devil we sure are. Stinky, most likely.
Conclusion: If we don’t allow the stories to digest, it is almost keeping the next chain of events and nourishment from coming through, not only for ourselves but for the beings. The digestion of the experience allows us to continue, and nourish the next. And the waste is hardly waste - it is the nourishment down the cycle. Just as cooking is the alchemy, and some is lost, death is had, putrid, but yet delicious to another. Experiential digestion.
Warning: If your blackwater backs up and you don't release it, you
are, ultimately, fucked.