you don't want to say everything happens for a reason just to make yourself feel better, and if it's a random universe it's even more astounding. in a way. i guess it's obvious if we say everything happens for a reason it's us who's supplying the reason. humans want a reason for everything in nature including human nature but when they apply human reason nature gets lost. why always comes back to why us. individually we want to make sense, but collectively, we're mad, and we don't give a damn as long as we're right.

this is the last of the sugar flower skulls, the face is missing, it's a cup now, a bowl, a transitional object. i put it back on the alter. it comes to this. the kids aren't creating the memorial protest anymore it seems. now it's about the disintegration. yet some kid still had a thought to write show love, show peace. in the disintegration it still goes on, like xmas.

it's 5.01 and i'm not done with the morning walk yet. it's taking so long for the pictures to come. maybe it's the full beaver moon in eclipse plus the wind. you feel crazy trying to act normal. she writhed in my arms but gave me a kiss for release. we had an argument and i went to feel the waves crush the beach and surge over the pier, over nothing but it's never nothing, cavernous—surge and crush and keening emptiness.
 

i said to myself little bear's as wild as the wind today. we went down the green alley way by the train tracks and around the vacant firehouse and i picked one cold raspberry on the alley by the community garden all done for winter when we can't rest like the earth, nor can the earth under us, except these little soil plots. a third of earth i think they said is desertified. then in the same alley i remembered this wide gray diamond garage and another dog i pictured perhaps lulu or barko bomba. she did good for feeling wild and held herself still. she was wild yet i understood. the pandemic, the wind, one thing and another, we go wild, we want to anyway, even if we fear it. then we want to be held. when we met the other dogs in the international house dog yard they got so intense i grabbed her up and held her in a bear hug. she squirmed and then settled and i put her down to carry on. we need time outs now. we feel wild and wonder for what purpose.

if you are thinking what a hellish winter this will be just take it one hellish day at a time. it may be that we have made hell on earth. we've surely tried. we worked hard as hell. we've earned a good rest. in hell. day by blustery burning day. find something to chew on. don't give up. i used to talk to myself. i still do. i was talking to myself on the path in the meadow just now and i was hardly aware of it til a runner ran past. i saw a friend then and she said it's a good thing we're solitary. yeah. i wanted to cry but it was too cold and we were too far apart. i just started writing and i lost most of what i thought about out there. maybe it belongs out there with the wind and the waves in the dunes by the pier the thoughts were enough. don't give up. 
 

 happy bird day tony. we went to see the sandhill cranes. they're heading your way. love, d

what ahm posed to do.

 if zombies ate their brains they'd deny that too.

my new citrine crystal touched by penny lu.

 

 it's invisible in this picture but my smoky citrine has a beveled diamond window.

there it is. there's more going on that reveals in the hand but you can see the window and the light going through and lighting a healed fractured surface within. i held this charming creature through our zoom session and r. held her smoky beauty.

i love how these magical beings fit together.
 

everybody still wondering what the potus gone ado. the pandemic occupant still occupying us the air still charged with occupier madness and this particularly unspeakably terrified chaos of omnicidal endless untruth.

 soul good to see my hilde. sweet dear gentle girl growing old and loved with time, her eyes clouding, i'm soul glad she sees me. last night i had an elaborate dream about choosing life, in the dream i was struggling with the feeling that i didn't choose and just let it happen, and when i woke up i felt i was actually asserting that i did let things happen, but i also make things happen, i do choose. not just books. books come to me, like stones, like gifts, like dogs, like people, and when they come i choose them, or let them go. mostly i choose the thing that chooses me, i don't often see until some time after the thing arrives, and i think then that's a good thing.

but i see why my dreams were occupied with choosing. it's also a waking theme. i've felt like a drifting theme, sometimes a song, other times a stone. my talk therapy is on that theme, i can choose, not be drifting haplessly, drifting purposely, saying yes or no and choosing by the way. i've struggled with freedom and what it means to be, and i see it is choosing, meaning what i mean, by nature, happening not haplessly.

i am done with sylvia. oh my dogs am i done. did it take 937 pages to tell her story and still so leave the feeling of much untold? never to be told? it exhausts and sends back the shorter sharper poems. she says what she had to say in the poems. the rest is footnotes. the best that a artist biography can do is send one back to the the art. it does that. it does make her seem more than a suicide, though that she was. ok so now i'll make another try at kraft.

i can say we palefaces. better than white. was never white anyway especially now. i look forward to the time when paleface is a choice on the survey along with something else, i guess i'm good with paleface until i can be something else, just don't call me late for dinner nor god forbid white.
 

in the duopoly somebody's lesser evil is always in charge. welcome to disaster capitalism.

no one's standard of living will change, nothing will fundamentally change, uncle joe says. so far in the pandemic economy 647 billionaires have made a trillion bucks while 33 new billionaires were born—meanwhile 22 million americans lost their jobs. it's become indubitably obvious to even the most casual of observers the shocks to the system are the system itself.

 it's annoying that they call warmongers hawks. hawks are not mass murderers. it's absurd to call mercenary killers hawks. hawks are beautiful. war profiteers are ugly and despicable.

 it's not a future apocalypse, or the past—it's ongoing. so far we've lived in it. writers wrote about it to live within it. what is underlying, what is, has been, is being destroyed, may be what survives us—or helps us to survive—the apocollapse. colonialism was the end of a world for the people who were killed or occupied. yet the world didn't end with death or occupation though it brought death and disease by conquest. the occupation is almost complete, yet it isn't finished until it takes everything. and still, something will survive, there won't be nothing left, what remains will be indigenous. this is the current phase of the apocalypse, the pandemic collapse. in pandemic reality we're the occupied, we're all indigenous though we may not think. we might survive to witness the ongoing apocalypse and still rise in the collapse. the rich will fall the farthest.

 

they say it's not your place to say this is my place

 

to be indigenous to north america is to be part of a postapocalyptic community and experience.                     

                                                                          —julian brave noisecat

                                

john said happy thanksgiving from inside his office through the closed door and i responded happy native american heritage day. i didn't hear a reply, then he said take some ziwi treats falulu. it's ok if i'm a stranger people who know me treat me good. i called mom—everybody was bummed i didn't make the family thanksgiving zoom-zoom. i said sorry, i feel like a ghost invisible in the room. anyway we have a weak connection issue. she said happy thanksgiving anyway. i said happy indigenous peoples day and she said hahaha. when i was a sapling or stripling i found some beautiful arrowheads and axe heads in a field in deerfield. did i feel the connection, or did i just glean the objects? i felt something more than artifactual. i felt the connection with ghosts. could i have indigenous ancestors. i know i'm a paleface but paleface is not my tribe. renate said all the places she's lived around here were on indigenous trails turned into roads. in miami i felt the life crushed under the pavement. all along i've felt the presence of absence—migrations, ghosts and invisible people. i've felt displaced in the places i've settled. it wasn't forced migration, but subject to forces beyond me. this culture appopriates what was here before and everything since it can including those born into it who don't belong like me. i know what it feels to be invisible, native to a place rendered no place, i still want to be native to some place.

 on page 738 i'm getting tired of sylvia plath's life. i was getting tired earlier but i paused it on the shelf and when i returned i confess i skimmed a bit. i want to see it through since i've gone this far and she's going to die soon and i can imagine how tired she must be. we'll get there. and then the weighty volume will be shucked off like a weary body, back to the library. then it might be good to read the poems, after a pause for the other five books awaiting me.

i did a back porch visit with hilde and comet and mary and nicholas and brought this painting. the dogs still get excited when we meet and since the family is around they don't get fustrated when i don't take them out. seeing them and touching them makes me happy. the pandemic keeps changing everything but there's a consistency.
 

it's kind of empty. people gone. sunny and mild. people driving crazy. driving the wrong way, crashing into light poles. reckless and wrecking. brain fog. people flying off the road.

it's not an issue worth mentioning in his book, but obama wants to steal the peoples' park for his private enterprise, and though for him it's an inconvenience not worth mentioning, the people are still trying to stop his land grab. now, in a global pandemic, when we need parks more than ever, a tower in our nature sanctuary is a crime. 

here's a video from protect our parks.

today is native american heritage day. what was native was stolen. we miss what was stolen. today is black friday. we can't undo what's done but we could return to earth after, even while, the unsustainable occupation collapses, if we can hold on, we still have the ground beneath the buildings, we still have earth, if we can hold on til the collapse when everything captured in suspense, everything poisoned, everything hoarded, everything expired in fire and water, fulfilled in fatal transit, is returned. it can't go forward without turns, everything turns, standing still one can see the spinning, see everything that turns returns. today we recognize what we can't un-know, what is native beneath all the drastic capitalist change, what stays native, what stays stays home. we can't go back in time but we can return what was stolen, by us, from us. we can go home.

 i think the kid will be ok, still a tenderfoot but bursting with energy and sharp teeth. she was super excited wanting to run full tilt. i got an incision on my right pointer and flipping the bird finger. i try, but i always say like stuart smalley, today wasn't my best day, but doggone it, i'm good enough, i'm smart enough, and people like me. and if i get down, and say i'm an old fool, i say hey now, duggles, that's just stinkin' thinkin'.

strange thanksgiving. everything is strange and stranger yet when people try to act normal and do normal things like in the past. i wish everyone would just let the normal past go and admit it's deadly and strange and unlikely ever to return to so called normal again.