“Though I might be deemed “social” by a panel of experts, I’ve grown used to the heavy silences of rural life, sparkling at times, thick with bird song or crickets; or predatory, as in sudden downpours of pelting weather, not warm. Staggering is not unheard of here in the wild apple belt, where carrying too much, too far, for too long, on legs accustomed to pain, is the wall paper. Like the feral cat befriending me, who appears with (almost) hidden gashes from his nighttime brawls, I seem injured, at times. Not the wounds of betrayal or heartbreak anymore, but the more mysterious, inexplicable cuts from within. “Who maketh the man” someone said. And “I do”, repeats the honest soul and the words reverberate from all the wedding vows taken, and innocent hopes sent up, like doves. I sit in the limelight of an empty house, the glimmering, lost & beatific summer sun making love to my windows, their raw, unpainted mullions so precious, so new. Who could have known ahead of time? Forgive yourself, before any others; beware the grandiose proclamations that push their way in front of a cause. Somehow emboldened by fiat, or local celebrity, to grant indulgences to an imagined sub-class of lesser moral turpitude. I’m sorry: that’s not how we roll in a free society. We’re equals and we will not agree on everything, at times, and that’s exactly as it should be. I embrace those who scare me now. Or try to, anyway. I’ve worked for them, I’ve been lovers with them. I’ve laughed until my belly ached, with a handful, on the dirty floors of motel rooms, at elevation and imbibing the desolation of desert plateaus. I’ve spilled my guts, and gambled, and been abandoned by them, but I don’t see anywhere to lay the blame, not exactly. They’ve met me in fields, passed bottles in bags or merely smiled, with a quirky, enigmatic expression that promised the earth and sky. And taught me to let go, and be alone again, because no one, not no one, is here to be a savior. I can state for the record, I never got anything I chased after, unless it was something I already had. In the early morning, post-rain, pre-apocalypse, I step onto my porch, made of pressure treated boards plotted out on CAD programs, by yet another genius friend. Preceded by another genius friend, who engineered the reclamation of a forest swamp, for spiritual renewal, by yurt. Who guided, who supported me, to do the impossible. Because I’m maybe known for doing things the hard way. Not maybe. Absolutely. What does that mean? That I didn’t choose to be shit on. But undeniably, I chose to take on the visceral knowledge of what it is to go from innocence to crackerjack readiness. That logarithmic curve is a doosey. I don’t recommend it. And yet ... I’d have wanted you to walk with me today, the short distance between one dream, and the other. To feel the twinge of recognition, when a random hawk makes a big display, for no reason, and does it in your face. When you could have died from a tree falling on your house, easily, but didn’t, and that was last night. Today, I was ready to embrace everyone who didn’t really understand what they were doing. When they hit me up, or hit me, when I was down. I love my imperfect human family. The closer ones, keep getting closer. The other ones, get closer, still.”
