“Almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it.” ~ David Foster Wallace
Coyotes brought the fog. It manifested right before my eyes, air going to milky blue from sapphire moonlight. All the while the coyotes sang, up over the rise, a vivid song that moved randomly through the rising mist. Celtic lore says that the mist is where the Spirit world and the material world intermingle intimately, where one may be the other, but it is hard to tell, nor is it necessary to do so. That’s how it is this morning. Something, someone, was approaching through the fog. I wondered. Likely an ancient Celtic goddess who just happens to be a friend of mine. Good, I’ve been asking for some major help to get me unstuck from this place in my life that is well into becoming unbearable. It started when I got the notably discourteous boot from the animal shelter, and it has progressed from there, never really showing it’s face until the past few weeks. Friggin winter holidays. I got yer Merry Christmas right here peeps. Your Christian God does not concern me, although His eminence is a beautiful one. Just let Him spread His love through y’all. No need to push. Won’t work with me anyway. On the contrary. But all Gods, and Goddesses, are One; facets of One ginormous jewel. A shiny one at that. This morning it was sapphire. I wish you coulda seen it. Boy howdy it was a sweet fog, moon swaddled in chiffon, and background music from some true masters. And, it is always good to have company. I asked her to walk at my side today. She asked which side. I said lady’s choice.
Now that I’ve got the religion out of the way let’s, well me anyway, move on to politics. You won’t find me mixing the two, but I sometimes bark when I see some big dog doin’ it. Friggin theocrats are plain rude. Heck, I would be offended by someone washing my car without asking, much less having some guy arrange my salvation for me. Don’t even try it. We haven’t the time, my friend. Huckabee is the worst. You can’t make this country a Christian nation dude. Rubio, your references to God’s will just piss me off. I wish I’d run into you in your Miami years. We’d have a drink, single malt, your treat, and we’d have it out. A pagan religion is the fastest growing religion in this nation. Live with it. And you, Mister Trump, are too deep for my taste. With your kind of deepness you’d be well advised to have someone purchase hip boots. Mister Cruz, sir? Same for you. Your Christianity is not the Christianity I know. Where did you get that stuff anyway? Gun show, right? And lose the bacon dude. The sizzling sounds like an angry rattlesnake. Or a lemon shark breaking the surface during a feeding frenzy. Merry Christmas, silly.
I’ve had enough of that, except to give a shoutout to our New Mexico Governor. Would you care for another drink, señora?
A trip to Walmart is in order today. Cat litter. The price is right or I wouldn’t be going. I always feel like I should wear a helmet when I go in there. It’s the oddest feeling. I have no idea what significance it may bear. At least I don’t want a tin foil hat, right? But I shall enjoy walking through the aisles, amongst the merchandise, with a new perspective forged of old memories. The sad news I’ve been writing about the past two days, about my dad’s legacy, has opened a floodgate of memories. My many years, twenty-three, in the islands left a deep impression on me. The island vibe is a huge part of who I am. Seems it must been buried or something. Its return feels so fresh! I welcome it. It is good to see it back. Barefoot island hippie boy. That’s me. I feel at home in the high desert mountains but it is the lesser part of my soul. A southeast wind, day after day, whispering through the Australian pines, rattling through the palms. I am also remembering me and my good buddy DJ perched twenty foot up in a mangrove forest. We’d paddled a red canoe out and down Snake Creek Channel, launching just across from the Coast Guard Station, and we found a nice tidal flow that had created a tunnel through the trees. We paddled in deep, past a silverback grandfather of a raccoon, stopping and tying off in a domed clearing under many branches. And we climbed, barefoot, THC coursing through our brains, up into the roof of the forest, up with the gulls and the mockingbirds. At the top we wedged ourselves into some comfy crotches and commenced to sway in the southeast wind, sing, “Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees”, proud of our primate and pop culture heritage. Another time I went canoeing with a phenomenally sweet Puerto Rican woman, tripping on blotter acid, out over the golden mud flats, out where the wind and water were one. They were one. I said as much, out loud but in a reverent sonorous near-whisper. She smiled at me and told me I was beautiful. Geez, I have her number in the Contact list in my cell flip phone. She is back in Puerto Rico now. I should call, right?
The memories come along
Older times we’re missing
Spending the hours reminiscing ~ Little River Band
The following image is the Snake Creek drawbridge, where all canoe adventures would begin.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.