Coursing

You know what I mean by 'Grave Robbing' don't you? Evidently, this game has gone on around here for years--a local take on 'seeing' I guess--a way to peel away interference. To be fair, it seems, if you do anything long enough and hard enough you'll see ghosts or colors or flagmen or Ohlone or whatever. When I first moved out here I thought it was the fog. Do you get that? Sometimes you have to rub your eyes at the stuff you see in this town on foggy days.

So go down to the where the creek runs under the freeway at night. Now each of you stands at one end of the tunnel. You can call to each other but you won't see a thing. (The pipe makes two turns.) On 'Go,' walk through. Don't speak. There's plenty to hear, lots of echos. After you pass the turn reach out because it's freakish black in there. You'll want to grab hold of each other at the center but keep going. When you come out, climb the slope and run back over the top to the other end. You'll pass each other, highway above. Go through again. That's a real creek, a real cutter. Run the circuit seven times, faster and faster.

I can't make any promises. But both Royce and her friend saw the same train and the same woman with the grave flowers and they both knew about the Ohlone.

I always want to stand in the sun when that gets told but it's foggy again today.

Motion and Orbs of Influence

A section may be a cut

A curve may be a coupling, a bell or a bridge


A transmission may have a trestle may have a station

Address in

The scent of BBQ smoke and chicken filled the autumn evening air. We wandered and chose some boundaries.
Points of interest.



For the light. As the crow flies, if you must know, approximately 3 square miles with stands of trees all along. Grids with some convincing absences.
We are after all the curious character and motion we can find.
Spots of interest.

A dalmation and her owner approach, investigate us and then move on their sunset rounds over the bridge. The grass and vines had recently been cut back. Where the creek is daylighted.there are storied layers more easily exposed, if you dig.
Points of address.



Ripples in the water as it enters and exits the subterranean passages. A stones throw up creek. The apartment buildings and convalescent homes are tall, but the redwoods are the sentinels of the waters’ course. They calibrate another length with their rings. Dive in to another protracted strata of time and story.
Spots of address.

Mushrooms and decay. Take a look in the branches shade. For example the small flags poking among the nasturtiums. Square up. It is not only in the numbers. In the cracks of the uneven sidewalks, in the empty barrels of Chinese honey, and the expressions on the faces of the gardeners as well. Yellow wasps are digesting the houses. Ring a bell, knock on a door. Our faces are all connected in looking odd, even and especially when we cannot see.



We are, after all, the curious character and motion we can find.
The laundrylines too. Try it on. But don’t get stuck…
the earth is expanding down there.

Off The Mark, On the Cut