ness: and I must have believed it subconsciously because as I say as soon as Ron Blake left I was well again and in fact content.
In fact very contented—I rose that following morning with more joy and health and purpose than ever, and there was me old Big Sur Valley all mine again, here came good old Alf and I gave him food and patted his big rough neck with its various cocotte’s manes, there was the mountain of Mien Mo in the distance just a dismal old hill with funny bushes around the sides and a peaceful farm on top, and nothing to do all day but amuse myself undisturbed by witches and booze—And I’m singing ditties again “My soul aint snow, wouldnt you know, the color of my soul, is interpole” and such silly stuff—And I yell “If Arthur Ma is a witch he sure is a funny witch! Har har!”—And there's the bluejay idiot with one foot on the bar of soap on the porch rail, pecking at the soap and eating it, leaving the cereal unattended, and when I laugh and yell at him he looks up cute with an expression that seems to say “What’s the matter? wotti do wong?”—“Wo wo, got the wong place,” said another bluejay landing nearby and suddenly leaving again—And everything of my life seems beautiful again, I even start remembering the nutty things of the binge and go back even farther and remember nutty things all through my life, it’s just amazing how inside our own souls we can lift out so much strength I think it would be enough strength to move mountains at that, to lift our boots up again and go clomping along happy out of nothing but the good source power in our own bones—And when I visit the sea it doesnt scare me anymore, I just sing out “Seventy thousand schemers in the sea” and go back to my cabin and just quietly pour my coffee in the cup, afternoon, how pleasant!
I make a wood run, axe and yank logs outa everywhichawhere and leave em by the side of the road to leisurely carry home—I investigate a cabin down the creek that has 15 wood matches in it for my emergency—Take a shot of sherry, hate it—Find an old San
