from The Notebooks of Ernesto Blanco

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How could city "Big Timber" when is no spectacle a tree? Very shamelessly these hills reduced! For appearance are plans not to grow again: blank hill of none saplings or little plants of the white diagram of seed. All is pieces dusty of rock and erosion of plans.

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Feared the brain tumor vacillating like to slow my auto in Custer, but reasons for the oil I stopped. O, malignant wind, cautious in its limits I verified: the city no exist. No children but dogs. Scorched or hollow buildings but thank you never the less station of petroleum. And a bar.

Ha. All angular ideas in the dirt axis--a white man endeavored connection--a boat like a house! None were safe around. He compelled me to the station of petroleum, wanting or no. Asphalt of potholes and scrap glass I need avoid slow in the dust. And measured also by the steel outhouse screwed on a late garage, here discarded auto decades. But the warehouse was empty of the gas. Each octane, exhausted!

God, to solicit here, "help please," is a ghastly arena. These men disgusted in hats comprehend my speaking travel enough. They stop and hear. But the echo is my reflection. I am too much to see speaking the greased window of such a warehouse, a too small station. God, it is a trap waiting. It is the flies on the possum, the dog with three legs. It is intuition, hot and dry. No, quickly I decided now rolling more than ever. My voice of the brain in this time a good quality voice!

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These radio fats. They care to associate to hear the stream pollution? Do they drown or bury to clone? Do they "dig" approaches communication in second language? Pale or charred, the word deserves excess of the negligible attention commonplace language permits.

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The city that peaks six miles far appropriate "Gray Cliff." Desire that had bad grass, there is nothing does: each wind mill in a shutdown and he is only one of afternoon. The worse heat is come.

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My vision anew for each landscape a piece of Earth like home of the first people. To see works continuously in a viable relation with the nature, adapting to the vital characteristics altering themselves of the productive ways, creating resources outside the materials of the nature--in short circuit, is "man" who is Earth domestic servant.

And the same man of so many ways, in diet and dress, emblems and rituals, in his daily work and game, reveals his adaptations often subtle and unconsciously to the nature.

But I get tired. Tire of the man and the man hearing to speak. Tire to hear the man is tired. I am tired without one more day a woman.