i wasn't feeling my strength. i got a rush buzzing my hair off, but it wasn't a rush of strength. in the tunnel i said to terry my weakness is strength, but when you don't got it, you don't got it. sometimes i don't have it, even my weak strength melts like porous ice, or hair in landfill, or wove in somebody's nest. 
we were going to photograph all the trees in orange marked in the shadow zone of obama's ghost tower. if we have the will. today i saw indecipherable spray paint messages, cryptic florescent leaves, little pink ribbons on tiny stakes pounded in the ground. i don't have the heart today for any more stumps or marked trees. 
i saw sixty silent stumps speak today.