10.28.22

In the great hidden mountain, a woman tells me that the mountain plays jokes on us. It gives us what we want the way it knows. She told me she wrote a song and I said about what and she replies: my father has been in prison for the last fifteen years and the state put him away on my word. I don't ask for her to sing her song but other people tell me it is worth listening to. The day before a man told me, in quiet confidence, that he had written three novels and a book of poetry. His books are about the journey of man who hurts a lot of people: for money, for power. He goes to prison and when he's out he lives peacefully until his old life finds him again. I listen to him without saying much. Then he tells me his secret. He is that man in his books. He says he hurt some people when his mother was about to lose her house. I wasn't about to let that happen he says. The windows are big where we are sitting. There is so much light around us. He goes on to tell me that his mother is a hoarder. Tomorrow he will go to her storage units and then have a yard sale whether she likes it or not. 

On the mountain, we sit on top of a rock facing the sunset. We pass a persimmon around and each take a bite. I was told to look over my left shoulder to speak the angel of misdeeds and to my right shoulder to speak to the angel of good deeds. I find that it's hard for me to look to my right. My friend asks me if there are things I like about myself and I can't bring myself to say any out loud and I don't know why. I touched my forehead to the earth three times. I tried to press these secrets into the rock. Then I laughed because the mountain was beautiful and because she already knew about the things I thought I was carrying on my own.