There is a steady tension in my mind, perhaps the only way to relax this is to wander around the crisp cold outside. It may not be easy, the streets are starting to feel uncomfortable to me, not inexplicably simply I do not wish to review the reasons conciously. This morning under the warm weight of the covers moments of clarity slipped in, understanding the shift changes which have been taking place over the recent past years. Slowly losing my memory and the ability to organize, hold things within the grasp of my mind, inherently turn to thinking through intuition and instinct from well ordered logic. This helps reconcile why it has become increasingly difficult to articulate the path, connections, and foundations to others. Progression of this change unnerves me a great deal at times, waiting though to see what is brought along with it. That which I am capable of now is with a greater precision and feeling though diminished in quantity compared to the prolific raw energy of times past. As if set adrift from a secure foundation, it may be foolish, I feel wiser slowly.

morning slipped in from dreaming so vivid...
Josh and I were halfway through painting on the same side of the line, though on seperate cars. He was to the left of me. It had that classic feel to it, looking over to see him stepping back sizing things up and then forwards again leaning in on the slanting gravel to make things clean appear. Up to those usual tricks. Grass tall and yellowing in patches up to our shoulders, some stepped down and branches reaching down towards the towering steel in a delicate canopy. My body was working with the back of my mind to get things moving before I was even conscious of what was going on, always listening through habit and paranoia for that low rumbling of a rolling engine. You have to operate on two levels in those kinds of situations, one part single focused on painting while the other watches your back. And in this, Josh was moving with me with as the surprise of what he was doing spread across his face, up the hill behind us tripping tearing through the bushes and blackberries scratching. Weaving over and around through the trees into the clearing of a back yard onto the street starting the car, moving to get out of there they were hunting we could feel it. Blanketing the public with knowledge of us, the media attempts to coerce disdain though lies of our deeds. In hiding back behind a house wandering a grassy clipped short field, we were having as nice time as you can a backbone of tension holding you in place, a visitor for us. It is an uncle aware of our situation, in a small entry hallway of a dilapidated house there are now three of us standing around talking with him. Absorbing the real situation, we can tell he is slightly hesitant skewed from the previously absorbed misinformation. Balancing, comparing. He remarks to my friend on the right, 'yet you have the hands of a thief', as he turns them over in his own hands, cautiously. For that remark I resent him somehow and he slips from my trust, though I agree with his assessment.

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