encinitas.

i'm alone under the star-scape, except for the distant hum of waves and the honey spark of burning ember. except for this pipe that keeps me breathing deeply.

the constellations are showing off.

next to me is the "tiny house" that i'm piece mailing for Augustella., between us sits Sherlock Holmes and Dallas Willard. Maybe Jesus too. Maybe he's making this moment pure and clear.

i find irony in my situation. my life of misguided calculations and misguided direction has placed me here - in this dream, that's so good it's dripping. so elaborate that no visionary doctorate could puzzle piece it firmly. everything seems so accidental. i have no idea ... no clue what i'm supposed to be or do with my existence. i'm powerless, but still here, amongst the buzzing choir of new life (GROWING!), and for the moment quiet and still. Walden Pond is in my backyard. Thoreau is looking through my windows, wide eyed, like he saw something meaningful. I see it too. But there's no map to get here. Or no way out. No GPS. No logician can make sense of the obvious in the scene. There's just a shabby dude standing in a shit load of Grace - pilled so high that he can't see over it, or through it, or in it - so high that bean stocks and 7 ft. sun flowers are starting to grow.

i can't even write fast enough. there's too much intelligent wit wrapped in my screen play. i did no planning. just got here and planted. just showed up. and keep showing up and THE beam is still blazing.