Forgive me, but I think I’d rather start a goat farm than wake up in this town one day longer. People think I’m kidding about my mountain hermit goat idea, but I’m not.
As it is there is a big sky above me. My diary says that should be enough. That I am a thought-bird in a body which is caged in a corner of a part of the world in which I grew up. And really, I should let the sky transport me.
When I was little I liked the big fields. Still do. I guess. Difference is, when I was little, the big field was more my imagination than it is now. Now, I drive to work and do things that make money and keep me paying bills because I decided education was a good idea. However debt is not. When I was little, the field was a man. By that I mean my horse and I could conquer him, or love him. Sometimes I’d fall off my horse and into his arms. There are stickers in his skin. I live/lived in the desert.
My mountain hermit goat idea was born while living in New York city. I wanted quiet. And space. And goats seemed like good company because I used to go to the mountains as a kid and they have stable footing made specifically for mountains and rocks.
If I drive 3 hours south I can be in the mountains again. Desert mountains. Not like the ones in New Mexico. Sangre De Christo. Blood of Christ. They are my favorite mountains which is why every time I hear the Simon and Garfunkel song “Heart and Bones” I feel like I’m running in a valley near Hermit’s Peak and that makes me happy.
As it is now, I’m still in the desert, which is flat, but at a rather high elevation, which is why there is a lot of porous rock and oil underneath. Which is why I moved back because I was in debt. I help get legal things in order so that people who own the said porous rock minerals can get money when we drill for oil.
I have a fascination with rocks. Mountains. That sort of thing. Goats do, too. Or at least their feet are made to form to it.
Someone once said you could be anywhere in the world and it all depends on your attitude. I like people. And what they say. I believe it. Christ can be two thousand places at once and in different formations at once. Whether it’s in the form geological formations or in the form of a goat.
I’d have to have a horse if I was to be a hermit on a goat farm on the side of a mountain. How else would I carry provisions back and forth? I’d need a cabin, too. And maybe a man to help me build the cabin.
I think you can be a hermit with someone else around. You’d just have to have your hermit time planned out. Like monks. Except if I was to be a hermit with another hermit I wouldn’t expect celibacy. That’s ridiculous.
Once I went to the mountains of Utah because I wanted to find myself. I was part of a tribe. And there were “Elders” which really means they were the ones who had already been found and were teaching us how to survive in the wilderness. Two of the elders were married. One was named Black Wolf and his wife’s name was Spirit Knife. I was jealous because they got to live their lives together helping teenagers find themselves and in the middle of the night I know they made love in their A-frame.
I thought about them last weekend while driving back from a river to the desert. I could see bits of hills, the last bits, before the flatlands opened up. The sun was going down. And sunsets in the desert are about as beautiful as whatever poet tries to describe as beautiful by mentioning a bowl of cherries after having already built on an image of children and heartbreak and his lovers hips. Subtle yet powerful and done in a way that you don’t even realize it’s being done to you until you stand there or sit in a car and see the colors change and widen its mouth to encompass the whole horizon and your skin at the same time.
Maybe it doesn’t matter I’m not on a mountain with a herd of goats. I keep writing into these ideas because I keep wanting to be somewhere I’m not. But if you keep walking in circles, without your eyes open, you’ll get dizzy and disoriented and you’ll forget to fall in love with your own angel that set you down, said, Shut up, you’re at this location for a reason.
That’s why I love maps. Love letters from a compass in your bones. The body knows better than any imagined field trip in your mind where you’re supposed to be. And I am going. As I’m writing, I’m going. So are you.