Freezing cold in my cave

Fur sarong fashionable

But not warm

Stink of unwashed bodies

guttural sounds

burnt stick to make images

cave walls protect drawings

of animals, 26 symbols

30,000 years ago today

remember my writings

grace from the beginning

first written words

breathtaking majesty

in France and Spain

Beat my chest!

I am architect of first

written language

read my work

before it’s too late

and it is gone.

These are words. Use them. Let your feelings be free! Use them to document your love. And spread knowledge to the future. And revolution to the past.

This is love. And now love can last. Not just this life. But even after you are no more. Engraft a kind of goodness in the mind of others. Set them free, too!

Write as if it is the only thing that can last forever.

I am. 

I know. I make. I share. I write. 

I make not-I know I am making knowing shareable with writing. I know everything will change because of writing these words. These written words make our spoken words echo beyond our lives. I have not enough words to continue writing these words. 

I will now invent some more words and spread them like fire.

sittin’ in a prehistoric cave 

lascaux, france, i think . . .

bored,

winter time, 

not much to do just sit 

an’ stare at pop’s paintings of 

him and friends chasin’ tyrannosaurus 

and some kind of horses

there’s got to be a better, faster way

to talk about the hunt than scribbles -

like my little sister’s . . .

had a dream last night

the better way to pass along information

i think,

is symbols, abstract ones, i’ll call

letters 

that stand

not for pictures like pop’s or little sister's

but little letters

standing for vowels and syllabic phonemes 

things of that nature

merged with

sounds of expulsions of air, 

like the sounds in our cave 

at night with all our snoring

tiny bit complex, but doable, 

using tongue and lips 

and diaphragms

now the trick is to translate 

this inventive creativity

to little sister, 

especially pops

who proves the paraphrased idiom, 

“not possible to teach,

(or extremely challenging),

to teach new tricks to old dogs,”

gotta run now, 

pops wants help with his own invention,

something about using a branch

for a thing he calls leverage,

tomorrow i’ll start work on a device i’ll call,

clay tablet and stylus

i got the idea from little sister and mom’s

making dolls of clay 

poking eyes and facial features 

with a pointed stick,

. . . paper hasn’t been invented yet

I'm cold, and we haven't gone hunting in a while, and there's this girl I want to have sex with and she's a gorgeous redhead, the only redhead here, for that matter. Wait, she can see this, can't she? Shit. Shit. Shit.

Wait, no, she can see this, but she can't read this. This is great.

Jeffrengi's a douchebag. He eats too much of the buffalo, fucking guy. And then he has the gall to tell me that I have to do the fucking rain dance. No, you should do the rain dance, with your full belly.

And don't get me started on Suskwe. She's the mother of the redhead. Won't even let me talk to her! I've tried. I said I would take her over the rock by Yonder Hill and we could just talk. She interpreted it as me just wanting to have sex with her daughter.

Anyways, I don't know why I'm writing this. I just needed to vent.

  My hands dance in excitement as I write these 'words'. It's as if I found them in my own throat. What I've been saying is no longer a picture, but a swift motion turned into 'letters'. It's as if I am a young child in the river. I have found a turtle and moonstone! For writing is hard to decipher, but my hands love these beautiful words! As if I devour them like my grandmother's snow candy and peppermints, it feels like they fill me. The different feeling between writing and saying is truly amazing. I write 'vowels' and 'consonants', when will the joy ride end? My hope is never! There is one down side my hands are starting to get sore, and my pen needs a new tub of ink so I will stop for now to rest and think of more words!

 It is the day after I've discovered words and my accomplishment has yet to be heralded. I am still as happy as a lark and I've decided to come up with a name for this collection of writing! It shall be called a diary. I shall nurture it with words that are true, and lovely and.......... gritty! I shall express my feelings, and love, and cherished times, and bad times, and even times I've made new words like 'gritty'! I say gritty because I dislike my father's grits, therefore saying it is something I dislike, or want to throw to the hogs. Truly, I think I will write for the rest of my life!

  My diary is coming along well and I am discovering one after the next of words to fit into my 'written vocabulary'. I've written about the new foals and the old foals, the green and the gray, I've also written about 'rhyming'! I don't know why, but I was writing down words in my word diary and they just kind of connected. Here I will show you an 'example'.

Rhubarbs and cactus barbs, or 

simple and sample.

Pretty cool right? I've been thinking of making them 'make sense'. I have to think on this though, I will 'see you later, alligator' hah, hah!

  It has been a week since I have visited my traditional way of writing. I have been writing a new form called 'poetry'. It has been a great experience, but it becomes tiresome and I start to feel 'melancholy' for my traditional style of writing. Anyways, would you like to hear some of my 'poetry'?

Kittens look like they will never be quitten,

they look so graceful yet queer,

they 'meow' while their Mommas' prowl,

and hunt for their young babies that are oh, so near.

So how do you like it? I hope it is well because that is the best one I've created.

 I write to you from my only piece of 'paper' left. My mother has found this and she is afraid I've gone crazy talking to a sheet. I try to tell her what scientific breakthroughs and 'words' you are for, but she will not have it. So I've included a small walkthrough of how to work my 'writing system' to whomever finds this. I shall now be under strict watch in the camp, so farewell words and writings, this makes me sad but I truly hope you find someone to teach floating down the river.

What if i told you there was a whole new world

a reflection of this one,

just with words?

A creation 

to benefit the whole nation.

In this world 

there is love,

there is pain,

but really there is gain.

its a mirror of comfort

it cools down the hate

or captures the beauty 

to mark your fate.

It is who you are 

you don't need to go far

to write what you feel

without any fear.

What to say....

What to say....hmm...I've been awake for a fortnight. 

My eyes are playing tricks on me. 

This liquid is thick, but I think it can be refined.

Look at all the pretty words, that appear from my hand. 

This is soothing, this is unique, it's like tapping a never ending well of possibilities. Each word births ten more and before I know it, I'm filling a page. To speak now would seem to break the spell, but I am writing to myself. Yet not to me. Funny, how that works. Tee hee. 

Maybe I shouldn't put tee hee down...it sounds so cheap. The glee springs forth within me. Never never have I been able to describe so vividly what I see. Neither the pale moon or the sea of stars have been so beautiful to witness as they are tonight. The marvelous capacity of it all. To unblock this dam within me. It crumbles under the weight of genius. The leaking of a spring soon unleashes a mighty river. My eyes shine at the upheaval- oh eternal spirit! Gods above and below! 

I can now see...These words spring forth w/ more purpose. Descriptions of a world so green. Valleys high and low. The suppleness of youth and the aching of age. Oh how we love, hate, and suffer so. The screeching in the dark, wide eyes, and piercing wings. The howling of beast at bay. Lying in shadows hunting us all, all fur and claws...grinding teeth. These are terrifying yet the sky is vast in it's glorious midnight blue. The cradle of Ishtar where she hides her jewels. 

The echo of the sounds. The curvature and my heavy handedness. What signatures that go by and by. Imperfect precision. Little sparks that capture me in rapturous delight. 

My hands are stained, but it makes no difference. I will continue; until my fingers burn. My hand goes numb from permanent sleep. I've been gifted w/ eternity and I must finish what I've begun. 

Hard surfaces yet emotions emerging

creating a divergence of energy

synergy felt at my finger tips

a harder stone rips one line, lets try two, how can I express what's felt for you.

Even though your not here, Don't even know anyone else who goes there.

It's making my arm burn as if pulling under my flesh is working out some unrest.

These lines turning and collecting wrecking my hard surface 

my chest will burst. If I can't.

If I don't!

already boiled up by smut with no meaning

My spirit it calls says keep writing it all 

with every stroke I take I'm gleaming

But what's that mean?

A light bulb next to a stick man?

This I can do! Yes, I can!

Chests beating harder and harder!

Am I getting a little smarter?

Where else can I do this?

Will other's be like me once they see the beauty of my lines that now look like man.

Scratching my head?.....

Yes to the fair stick lady,

              Now holding my hand.

Oh Shoot! This is easier in sand!