Writing in the Forest

From the Journal of Scarab

Location:  3.1 miles in the middle of the woods

Soon it will be dusk, all the worries of an outside world forgotten and gone.  Sure I could be making a ‘productive member of society’ out of myself, or I could be sitting on a rock in the deep woods with a valley below me, attempting to write of its beauty and wondering how long it’ll be before it’s torn away and inhabited.  The world moves on, and soon, so shall I.

California calls…

“Come West!” whisper the voices.  “Come West!” say the words.  “Come West!” the plane tickets say.

So West it shall be.  I never entertained the thought that Jack and I would be seeing the Pacific before we saw our own local and familiar Atlantic.  It’s for the better I suppose, Jack and I need to travel.

And travel we will.  Having only bought one way tickets, we’ll search for Dharma in the same spirit as Jack Kerouac and Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.  So yes, I could be doing my part to ‘save America’, but right now, I’m fairly happy to be in these woods that I call home.  Just keep in mind that as I sit and write this, the forest I see before me will one day be covered with houses.  It’s depressing but true.  No more will the Saw Birds call or the water fall glisten.

Progress to people it seems, means ruining it for someone or something later on.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  Perhaps it’s that I’m an old soul, or I am, at heart and in blood, still just a mountain boy who got out into the world and saw how strange and beautiful it was and is.


~ by binarycheshire on May 26, 2008.

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