Endless Brain Chatter

Inside the trunk we found three sheets of paper with

some images tied in a pretty but old and stained Satin bow.

 

 

 

October 1906,

I don't have much paper left.

I find myself stuck in a gully of The Rio thinking I hear a flash flood from off north of here. I expect this is the last thought I might have. I believe it will be saved in the cloud. My foot is broken but not the spirit dwelling somewhere in what is left of me.

The last human being I saw had a blazing fire going, smothering some pots with layers of dung and shards. I picked up a few along the way, shards I mean, tiny black line work reminding me of my sweet mother and her perfect little writing style. Once, I met a china man who wrote with black ink and a brush, purely beautiful, I thought. What a waste that he was a slave to the opium den. I guess the railroad left behind more than just metal rails and wooden walkways and houses from the Sears and Roebucks Catalogue.

I am thinking of a vessel I saw in the front parlor of a lawyer. It was about 6 foot tall made of porcelain. One of the most remarkable things I will probably ever see. I think about the idea that someone painted with care this thing which is just another thing, not even good for holding water which is what I really need, right now. Cool clear water now that is such a simple thing given to us for free. But, when you cannot get up to even get yourself a ladle of water a container ain’t much use, after all.

 

 

I was to take the train in the next town into Santa Fe where the Indian Market for the fall is going on. The pawn jewelry that I bought on the North Rim is to be sold there. The Blue glass beads from Russia and the African beads I trade for Navaho blankets will be good for nuthin if I can’t get some help pretty soon. I don’t know if a prayer could even be heard out here where there is not much but Buzzards flyin in a circle way up there right now, but not for long.

I think how every living thing has a purpose on this earth. I guess all I am is food for those blasted buzzards.

The muslin sack I keep in my pocket has enough tobacco for a few last smokes. The paper is still dry and I can still flash a spark for the matches on my denim pants. I’m thinkin to ration these out to track the time or is it the other way around.

The last fire before that other last fire was something to behold. That black as sin fryin pan has seen its days full of trout. Last time we caught 150 in just a couple of hours. The water itself was almost freezing come down from the snow covered mountain near Flagstaff. We gutted those fish and put them on the stringers of rope one guy just made that day. We took the whole load of fish up to the cookfire. When we threw them in the pan full of mutton fat they sizzled and sent sparks a flyin. Sure wish we coulda had a photographer along, what a thing to think upon right now. I guess I must be hungry too. So I see are those blasted buzzards. You would think I am the only live thing around. Well, come to think of it I must be just that, otherwise, someone would come to help. I forget whilst I am thinking that it is inside my head and not out loud. A mistake I am makin by not sayin what I am thinkin. Now that would bring a laugh to those who left me behind because I converse in this diabolic manner with no real point or end.