on the bow of a ship i lay on my back
a blue book
a box of craypas
a sketch book and a speaker
it is the edge of the break of day and the hills are speckled with lights
we edge towards red rocks
a man, local as he is ancient
hunts in a puddle
for a fish
with a spear

we enter the canyon the ocean water has carved. an in let of red stripes like fingers on each side.  it is magnificent.  mud drips on my body from the roof of a cavern. it is rich with shit of the ages. so red it's grey and i am covered from head to toe.

i sneak back in and am over looked by older men as i undress. mud still covers my skin, my face, my hair.  I am capturing everything on my phone, which allows me to see behind, farther than my eyes

women with their daughters, mothers teaching their trades.  tending to tailless cats and small small horses
i show my mom the way my mud mask has dried.  it peels off in chunks despite my best efforts to keep it on.  i want to show her my transformation.

his acting persona on the phone is a dramatic difference from the one he uses with me
a dial turning between roles