The access psychedelics give to the mind, cosmic mind, is not insane. I incline towards plants and trees. Oak tree in particular. Pine and cedar. Great Grandfathers and mothers walkers of forest and fern too. Botanists. Argonauts. Early California. And I trace lines that blood has danced before. Here in Hawaii. Veracruz. Artifacts in a cabin and in the earth. Layers of earth folded up on these objects.
My dad and I do neo archeology, from a dump in the mountains that closed in the sixties. Old coca-cola bottles, porcelain cold cream jars. Blue brown bubbled glass. Telephone insulators. My dad and I we walk along the trail my emotions running loops in my head and the trees holding space. Holding me. And my dad he identifies plants and fungi and fern and sometimes their uses. I seek that mountain man now never far from my heart. I feel it in Noah and Kallai. In my brother and in cold water. My dad is a complex man and yet, as his daughter, I see his simplicity. His love for me is unconditional and that is safe for him. For him that heals. Makes whole the void where care and unconditional acceptance leaked out of his skin.