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ever dumbening
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Driving
state route eighty-nine south, with windshield dry and smeared--fluid or motor frozen. Sun at the wrong right angle. Each turn becomes a new gamble as I head to South Lake, then Kirkwood for another crap shoot, chute. I cannot see when the sun hits. I travel a stretch where the trees and sun conspire to form bars across the road. Now I'm taking the integral of the road. Merging blinding bars of light and cool bars of shade, my mind is appoximating the area under the curve, the area where my tires are more themselves. "Charlie don't surf." Seeing not seeing; if you have enough rectangles, close enough together, you can estimate.
Sitting
atop a craggly rock, ascended in ski boots, after fifteen minutes snow stepping lung burning. I look at the degrees, three hundred and sixty, and maybe thirty-eight. I am pleased that I hiked above the lift's end, above ninety-nine percent of my fellow sliders for the day. I had guessed, had known, had thought that I would be, pleased. More throat singing, the rocks vibrating under, the air over. I imagine the scramble, in these not intended boots, back down the few feet of bare rock. Seeing drifted snow below, I reckon (rechnen) again, this time with aid. First a small snowball, then larger, then a rock. How deep the snow? How far am I, how heavy? Enough, seventeen feet, one hundred and seventy pounds. PE=mgh or so we're told, with a high degree of certainty. I leap, right after a flash to Lake Mead and another cliff, and land to my waist.
No thing is certain. Every moment a calculation, calculus. Advice: just a higher number of slices experienced by the giver. Hope: befriending the slices, in spite of, or because of. Coastline: another fractal, look closer, look closer, look closer; the border between wet and dry, another approximation.
Calculated: guess: again.
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020204
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