I know by experience, by now, that no subject matter, after a while, remains just a subject matter, but becomes a matter of life and death, our sanity resolved by visual means. Sanity is our power of perception kept focused. And it is an open-ended endeavor.

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waking up with black coffee and white cat clawing my right hand on the keyboard, i read the above and below by etel adnan, about the mountain where i put grandma rose's ashes. a place, the place, she couldn't go anymore. there was a little green mountain out her window, and butterfly patterns on the sliding glass reflected on her headboard in shadows. her eyes were getting opaque. i went up the little green mountain for respite from her dying, and to eat watercress from a little stream, and bring some back for her. she could only smell and say thank you.
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In this unending universe Tamalpais is a miraculous thing, the miracle of matter itself: something we can single out, the pyramid of our own identity. We are, because it is stable and it is ever changing. Our identity is the series of the mountain’s becomings, our peace is its stubborn existence.