I don't think I've ever seen mountains rise from the water's shore. White cloud had brushed away the mountaintops while the wind-ruflfed water reflected the blank white sky. Each more-distant forrested giant paled futher into unreality, and even the nearest barely held its green from between resevoir and sky, standing firmly in brief temporality.

Later, driving to Mr. Belayre and after

The stone and forest giants silently grow more misty, more grand, more awesome in their veiled power.
"Humble thyself..."

Un tad lietus nak,
And then the rain comes, dziesma kas ir kaut kas taka cela celas celaka lugsana ko es varu dot no sirds kopa ar bridi tuvu asaram.
(a song that is something like high and great rises in the highest and greatest prayer that I can give from my heart together with a moment close to tears.)

Un tad makons krit, dalas no pasaules ir pazaudetas, pasaule apmiglojas, un kamer udens pie vina lielo saisto asi-maigo krituma smidzina manu seju kur es tupu sunaina papardeta kalna krituma kajam, es izjutu tadu Dieva speku, un es gandriz nemitigi ludzu Dievu.
(And then the cloud falls, parts of the world are lost, the world foggs, and as water at its big beautiful sharp-soft fall mists my face where I crouch at the mossed ferned mountain fall's feet, I feel God's power so, and I almost unceasingly pray to God.)
Un es apzinos, zaudeju un rupejos un uzstraucos un atrodu, braucu par sikiem jauniem celiem un iznaku talu no majam.
(And I realize, lose and worry and am concerned and find, drive along slight new roads and emerge far from home.)

Dark-skinned salesman of Bhuddist antiques, of dark wood skulls & silver prayer wheels, who did not address me, but spoke friendlily of living in a mountain village, and trying to sleep in Manhattan.

White-haired Jody who found out my name just as I went to look, who calmly sits in a rocking chair on a porch to write, who is concerned over the lost keys, & donns a yellow ruber to take walks in the rain.

Justin, who paints love and breasts, who keeps two longhaired cats that shed all over his studio that was once a crurch, who asks if I like going to church and sings the song with my name, and asks where I will have my dream farm.

Ryan O'Connor from the Carribian and Last Chance Cheeze, who laughs over his dreams & our acents, who doesn't do summer work for school, who believes in the full moon and in spirits. And Ryan says we are just animals, like his dog and his neighbor's, who dig only when the moon is full, with the same blood and the same body rhythms.

A moment changes if it is put onto paper. It changes if it is run over as a memory to be stored. Holiness and goodness and purity can be destroyed or preserved in catalogue or in expression or in communication.
But moments not recovered are not so awfully lost, for they existed pure and of feeling.

From the beginning through "firmly in brief," written in Last Chance Cheese over dinner. After, written in the bathroom of my cabin at camp, where there was a nightlight.

The two pages this is written on are so covered with writing in funny little clumps running against each other and into columns and connected across the page with each others through quickly-added arrows that I couldn't quite translate these to pages correctly. The writing is mostly here. But there's emotion even in the craziness of the way I wrote it. Sorry that didn't translate.

All italics were not actually in my notebook.