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Bleeding Red Ink


“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~Ernest Hemingway

I like to write with different colors of ink. Thoughts flowing from my brain through my fountain pen onto unlined paper helping me discover who I am. Today’s color is a favorite. It’s called cayenne. To me, it is the color of Southern Utah. It is canyon red, it is spire red, it is mesa red, it is hoodoo red, it is Colorado river red, is it Arch red, it is the red gleaned from my soul, a soul with roots buried deep in red dirt, roots anchoring my spirit in the Moab landscape.  It’s a place I must return every few years to feel whole, wholly connected to the vast universe, wholly connected to my equally vast and more mysterious innerverse. Moab is my balancing point on Earth between the depth of my soul and the expanse of the starry Milky Way. I guess you could call it my juncture of maximum energy.

When it comes the time for my final pilgrimage, I want my ashes scattered throughout the canyons to steep in the energy of creation. Even better, I would like my body parts scattered in the red world, decaying flesh feeding Coyote, Vulture, Insects, and Maggots giving back to creation a little of what I took for sustenance. And ample time for my bones to bleach beneath the sun. The deity that used to turn my flesh pink would now infuse her whiteness into my bones until they became stark until they crumbled to ash and fed the roots of the diminutive plants granting them a morsel of nourishment, helping them prosper in the harsh environs.
For me, that is eternity. For me that is heaven on earth.

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