Katy HamptonWriting from the WildSpecial Project Draft 2

Authors Notes-I’m note entirely sure what to call this. Does the format work?Does the organization work?Is there a flow? Do these thoughts connect or do they seem random?Did anything leave you confused?Do the photos add to it? I wanted to show the spots without the awkward descriptive process because that doesn’t allow for the other side of what I want to write… or could that work?

I have yet to find the perfect tree in the Evergreen forest. I had thought there

would be a plethora of tree options in such a large forest. But, when you really get down

to it, there aren’t any of the perfect trees. The perfect trees grow just for you to climb

them. The branches stay thick enough to support you at least twenty feet in the air.

Those are the trees that show you another world and welcome you into it. Having not

found one since I’ve lived here, I am left somewhat disappointed. So, instead of focusing

on the lack of those magical trees, and the one I left behind, I have decided to find those

ethereal spots in the woods and write from those places.

It is difficult to find seclusion in the woods when there is good weather. If you

steer clear of the main paths and the beach, it isn’t terrible. Personally, I walk the

opposite direction of any and all human noise. This generally involves going off roading,

so I’d recommend that you wear clothes and shoes you don’t really care for. Shorts are a

mistake. Extraneous objects are a hindrance (especially large ones), but if you need your

guitar, put it in a case. (I recommend smaller instruments at first.) Solitude isn’t

necessary but people can ruin these spots by making them into something they are not.

I’d give you my heart

But I will live without the beat

I try to show you the forest

But you won’t see it for the trees

So, I offer the ocean

But it will only reach the shore

I’d bathe you in starlight

Nebulous deaths of millennia before

This is a writing tree. As if it had already been crushed down to the notebook I

use, this tree wants me to engrave this experience. As I go a-walking through the woods,

bits and phrases try to push to the surface of my thoughts. I cannot let them form.

Crowded paths meandering toward the beach are not the places for words like these.

These ideas need darkness to temper the light. Sitting thoughts.

I cannot abide by the beach. Beaches are all fun, fun, fun until Daddy takes the T-

Bird away. Seasides are inherently happy. Incessant joy leaves me fuming, just to be

contrary. Give me lightning and black clouds; keep the salty sunshine for yourself.

But this is not your typical beach. Trees casually extend an arm out to the sea.

Roots sew themselves into the fabric of the sandy blanket. Sitting on this tree, a fish out

of water, I feel a grudging acceptance of this place. Standing only to plop down to the

rocky earth. More familiar than the first steps into a childhood home. I lay across the

jagged surface to see each stony specimen better. This is the corner of a childhood dream

that wasn’t extinguished with the flame of your life.

I’d give you the tree of life

But it would have to die

I’d give my world for your smile

But even now you can only cry

I want to share this place with someone, but I haven’t met them yet. This is a spot

for soul mates. Then again true blue best friends can share what only a soul mate can.

Why do I romanticize everything? Music, life, living… If envy is a sin, what is wanting

to be the cause? Funny how people smoke when they cannot catch their breath. Smoke

does not clean these emotions. Fumigation’s gone awry. What do my beloved poets say

at times like these? My words feel bitter in this mouth. Their origins, an embarrassment.

My bards belong in these thoughts and spaces. They belong to the breezes that dance

with the trees. They belong to these woods.

I have time

I’m afraid I’m losing it

So glad I don’t own a watch

Convenience lets worries transmit

I have started to become a citizen of the forest. On nice days like today, the

woods and paths that lead to the beach are crawling with people. I feel like a native

creature as I freeze at every snapped twig or muffled voice. I’ve learned how to move

without the sounds of humanity plaguing my footsteps. Leaning against this living giant,

I feel welcome. The indentation of the trunk embraces my fetal form, a wild lazyboy.

Blissful solitude always seems to be interrupted by crass laughter. As humans cut

through the area, my welcome is revoked. The tree suddenly stiff, the small creatures

once again distrusting of my presence. I am a foreigner here.

This tree is almost ideal. But when you already know your perfect tree,

convenient bodies are only temporary. However, the slight reflection of my tree in this

one is enough for now.

The worst that can happen is you’ll fall. In terms of terrible results, this is not so

bad. Limbs may break in the process but that is the sacrifice one must make. The greater

the fall, the larger the gain. Trees growing on cliffs are perfect for this. You climb

twenty feet for a two hundred foot fall. Minimal effort with the ultimate reward. This is

the American dream.

I took the path less traveled

And found out I could bleed

But without filling our life’s lows

The highs remain empty

These woods are made for walking, so, that’s what we must do. Every person

deserves the seclusion and safety of their spot in wilderness. I’d give them mine, but it

doesn’t work this way. I allowed others into a few of the spots I claimed as my own, and

the sanctity was gone. They turned those secret places into just another cool hang out in

the woods. They don’t see the garden of Gods, and ignorance is only their bliss. So, go.

Go out to find your place in the wild. These woods have a room for everyone.