Perhaps these notes will help explain the events of the past few weeks, so that not everything I have been witnessing will be lost to speculation and hearsay. Maybe I’ll be back in due time and will tear up these pages with deep embarrassment; I will cut ties with Ethan and refer him to one of my colleagues. Though, should he ever be allowed to tell his side of the story, everyone in my profession will shake their heads and use my case to warn their disciples against grotesque transgressions.

Bold charcoal lines slithered across the canvas of the huntress’s blue gaze. Her fingers dipped into the inky mixture, then ran thick, twin nocturnal serpents under her blackberry-stained bottom lip and down her chin. Her framed eyes glinted with raw focus as she worked, fully immersed in the ancient custom meant to intensify deep forest vision, connecting her to the fire that bore the dark origin of this war paint and to the fierce spirit of the hunt.

Clement shivered. Rain fell heavy, filling the runnels on either side of the bridge’s supports. He surveyed his home in the dim light of the evening, reaching, feeling for the tent, his clothes and sleeping bag. His neighbors had left, fearing the predictions: the river would soon crawl up the bank and sweep everything to the bay. He looked up at the underside of a steel beam, an arm’s length from his head. The river spoke in a rush at his feet. He must leave his carved-out dirt space of a home.

I received an email saying that my work account password is about to expire, but I am not sure which work account this pertains to, since we have multiple. Any help would be greatly appreciated. I feel like I am lost in a sea of passwords.

When the old horse ‘n hay barn came down off 450 South, smoke rose for days, carried for miles. A great gray cloud come to overtake. No one thought Old Man Neeri was tethered up inside. Days later, after the coals had quit their smoldering, the authorities picked through to find the cause of the burn.

The bearded old Mexican operating the levers of the yellow forklift sings, “Tomás, ooh-ooh-ooh.” He is singing to me even though my name is not Tomás – first or last. But I am a bit of a doubting Thomas. And a peeping Tom as a kid. But not a Tomás.

August 15, 1945
Betty shows me her scar. Dark purple it runs six inches down her belly. She says it’s ugly and I say it’ll fade in time.
Drove through town on my way back. Jap surrender is all over the news so people hold up two fingers for victory. It’s when I get away from the crowd.

If you head downstream, there’s a waterfall that empties into a natural pool so deep that no one has found the bottom yet, which means it’s perfect for practicing the fanciest of dives and biggest of cannonballs. But it was also a great place to lazily float in large, gentle circles.