JOSHUA TREE, CALIFORNIA

This will be a stream of consciousness written on the morning following our first day apart across a great seize of water and seas of memory. I am already remembering you, your color beamed luminosity, the magnetized ore of your eyes, the sap that runs thick in summer and winter between us. As you are landing in the archipelago I am rolled in warmth and dust curled up in woolen rugs sprawled out on floors and rising with bitter strong coffee with syrupy Joshua honey flicking spliffs at the tearlessly untiring ants rummaging around in our footsteps. Yesterday, as I ascended the crest of the valley a looming orange purple fumed cloud combed by windmills and crested by graduated golden rainbows split the creviced skies between one stage and another. Crafting a new language gilded by moons glowing tempered by sun fueled by Peruvian exports, we build rafts from dissonant tones and hum to a swaying flow manifest in cicada songs and quail soft shoes.

The anticipation of moving to a new green corner of the world splits and divides into branched appendages of hope and guiltless desire for what might become from a well-nourished future garden. I am a person and must engage with a public, even if I inhabit an alienated self-prescribed position within the stock market of personality. Stockholm holds a promise for revitalized focus married with the anticipation of immanent radical change sending shivers down my column and lending speed to my thunder tongue finger tips, tapping off alliterations ameliorating anathema analgesics.

I spend long vibratory hours passing outside overlooking a wide-open expanse of dirt clinging to brush sweeping violet and ochre shadows over the valley. The clouds swim as though an inverted ocean and I sit and coo at the birds and bats and rabbits gathering and arranging the gravel into continually wider degrees of chaos cocktails for my sights to stir within as I plant and wait for the music of the spheres and reeds to tickle in from over the hill somewhere right over there. The green lives in the rocks while the low scrub claims yellows, burnt umbers, and opalescent purple stripes. In the early morning and late evening, the colors organize themselves into sharp horizontal bands which stretch ever wider and thicker until blurring into a grayscale yellowed outline map of itself, guiding. As the sun sets it draws out the chromos from the land and all that sits on it. Reds fade to blue and then finally black ink spills over the world illuminating my nose with a sickly pale cyan internal glow. Everything is quiet and moving imperceptibly slow, grinding ever to a violet halt.

I take coffee with Ornette Coleman, vibrate some keyboards with afternoon elevation rituals, sip rum with heavy lime with the days playback in the evening, and emolliate my minds with further variously abrasive chemical abstractions throughout the blackness. I somehow awaken to a solar tone and find myself getting heavily caffeinated pouring over words creaming and swirling from recounting the previous days activities. The shape of jazz to come is bulbous and also tapered in relation to the gelatinous corpuscule we are designing here on the landing pad of the earth. We five soothsayers are accumulating a cosmic woolgathering sieve that will inevitably burst into a fractalline lattice promising further explorations into deeper chasms of the subject-in-relation-to increasingly compounding into myriad contortions of my conduits of focus. I am optimistic for what our woven fields may reap for we are certainly sowing a swollen saccharine seed seeped in simmering brine. I do not know what is approaching but I am certain of its crystallized synergistic synthesis of our probing troglodytic vision.