Eight years ago I was getting drunk on beer, sleeping on a couch, listening to a man I could have loved discuss the status of his relationship with a girl who was not me. It was my father's last night on, this, god's green earth.
I woke up, went to church, walked back to my Papa, watched him pass, read a psalm, watched his spirit reunite itself and return to god.
Off in seattle, I drank whiskey out of a crazy straw, moved to portland, fell in and out of relationships, found love, fought love, lost love; discovered high potency psychedelics, stopped using the hard whites, riding horses again, learned to swim a sub-30 mile, competed in a few sporting events, became part of a family, was considered to be almost an adult by most around me, I think I lost in all of that the tick-tock of my vital stance.
I don't have much to offer; what I have is yours. How nice would it be to imagine that we move through life islands, untouched, untouchable, stalwart to the internal crescendo of awareness. Lives overlap and years pass, faces emerge from forgotten histories.
One of these is my darling Mr. Kitty, who after even my first tours of seattle, the youthful mayhem, has remained a steady influence. We've even managed dinner once in the last five years. I ate a whole fish, it came with skin and its eyeball, it was delightful.
There are times I think I remember too much, at other times, I know I have forgot all the best parts, like the sound of your life as your heart beat in your chest and the smell of sodden wool. I am lonesome for the memories of all of us. I am with you even when we are so far apart
I head north in a few minutes, Seattle bound (you know I am never hard to locate). Watching the sunset last night over Dry Creek Valley, I realize how home this place feels. All of it, the almost thirty horses, the checking freezing waters, the keeping the wood fire burning. I am against my skin, inhabiting the area between me and my thoughts, it's a decent place to stand.
