9.12.2023
Dillon runs through the snow, everything white and crunchy, while I lay in a ditch under a tarp. I wake from that hallucination, paralyzed (frozen), everything black and soggy, but still in a ditch. Rain crunches the tarp. No snow, only slugs. It’s summer and it’s 3 am and we’re wrapped in polyester body bags shoplifted from Walmart along a logger’s road in the crags of the White Mountains. Dillon churns in his hammock, sleepless like a wet burrito. A stick pierces my side and I die. The forest is brightly writhing, moss and liverwort, Dillon shouts, “I want to be naked and run through the forest!” Yes, me too! I wake again, and Dillon is still a wet burrito, chorizo con huevos, and the forest is shrouded in mist and emerald and tiny tiny spiders. Later that morning we find a red river (iron rich) and we become naked and we enter the amber waters and we lounge on the green bank, naked, shivering, wet, naked and wet as the day our mothers wept in agony and joy, pushing, pushing– We’re trying to shoot a film but I don’t know what it’s about. It’s about–
“A stick pierces my side and I die.”