Clarity.  So fleeting.  I feel like clarity can be a squirrely elusive target.

I'm sitting right now in one of my favorite secret places -- the little disused rail car at the local trainyard.

off on a siding.  A motorized car for workers that rides on the rail.  Quietly rusting at the end of the yard, where scrap metal, old ties and timbers, barrels, crossing gates, machinery goes to die. This would make an excellent place for a trash orchestra field trip.  So much rusted metal to bang on.

I need this time sitting alone, my mind freewheeling.  The sunshine.  The pressure of others needs far away.  I need a lot more time like this.

The industrial detritus of this railroad yard is so comforting to me.  I'm not sure where that comes from.  Some childhood thing?  I have vague recollections of sitting inside some metal container, a dumpster?  a shipping container?  a railroad car?  it felt safe and free and faintly erotic in the way freedom always did to me when I was a child.

Here are some of the things that make me feel like myself.

being alone writing in my journal meditating sitting in a trainyard working on art motorcycle rides writing a letter on paper

drawing smoking a cigar alone spending an evening alone at home stacking rocks working around the house being in the desert

There is warm sunshine, a cool breeze, the whistle and rumble of a far off steam locomotive, a gentle buzz of activity of a working trainyard, acres and acres of space for thought.