Turning right at Alburquerque

It’s turned rainy and grey this morning, after several rousing bright days in this Northwestern town. I watch the young man in front of me sketch the beginnings of what might be a comic strip. My eyes are sharing the sky’s disposition, and I am counting the minutes till my coffee. The cycle squad turns in it’s pack formation, and we stop for the hundredth time, the bus chugging along, nearly swelling at it’s gains. Heather grows well here, and the Williamette isn’t too polluted. I have to scout out a spot to blow off a firework Monday night as it is the Lunar New Year’s Eve. I live here now, in a city I never had considered, not really, and I’ve put down roots. A job, a Haus, a partner. Nothing feels permanent because not least I’m surrounded by active volcanoes and near the Ring Of Fire. But it’s a beautiful City. Everyday, I find a new pocket, a new charm previously unseen. The two lady bus drivers wave to their college, and we pass the DPS line where the only light in so many of those dead eyes is fueled by irritation or impatience, twin sisters. I have a need to start again, to wake up my resting urges, winter is no real reason to squander my time. But first, coffee.

Killing Mrs. Landingham

It's a chilly night here in this eastern corner of the most northwestern state, and 20 past midnight just whirled past me, surprising, yet I somehow knew this day had quickly shuffled past, like a hope that just won't work. It is Inauguration Day, as I huddle in this chair, at this desk, in this corner of a state named after the first of 46 come tomorrow. A week ago, murder, sedition and insurrection were the on the menu, and I hesitate to sleep as those quiet minutes step closer to tomorrow's grand reveal. Our capitol city is under lockdown, and trust is on short supply. I turned yet again to another fix, one more West Wing episode, this one about inauguration, and yet, Part 1 yet ended, and it's 2:07am, and I'm still no closer to that bed. End of Part 1.

It has been a long time. And it almost feels like opening a strange door to a room in a house I am uncertain of, fearful of. Here goes nothing... I feel so uncomfortable in my skin at the moment. My body is swelling for a monthly cycle that may be because I took herbal supplements to do the opposite of its result. I am not an exhibitionist, though I love my legs free. And a short skirt. Big tits were for the other women of my family. I always was more boyish, and it was dandy. One can only hope throwing these pills to the wayside will return my frame to a more quiet shape. Regardless, I step forth into a month that feels fraught with boobytraps, no pun intended. A play in three weeks, Lunar New Year’s Eve celebrations, my favorite, and time to find out if the ocean is indeed calling. Who knew that I would heed the Devil’s Punchbowl’s call so strongly. I couldn’t stop thinking of Angel, my grandmother, and her travels, her art collection, and her style. It all made so much sense to be there. Since leaving I feel like a piece of me is adrift. Waiting for my return. What I do know is despite my deep and resolute love of Texas, I must away. Three of the most key women in my life abide on the West Coast. Time to visit. Portland may be a little too precious. Regardless, Chairman and I will look for a temporary abode, perhaps soonish. I worked an event tonight at the Jones Center. Saw a lot of buddies, and saw more strangers. Served and ate good food. Met new friends, and felt better about older ones. Walked home from downtown awash in a Super and BlueMoon. At 4:32 am my time, we have our first lunar eclipse during this arrangement since 1982. I almost want to chase that orb. We’ll see what I’m up to. No matter what, I hope this remains in the void, and my howls drift like so many into a charged night sky. I love you, Lee Jackson Coffey. Sleep well, Bear.

Quiet, Easy Spring Nights There are smells that do not leave you; haunting, defining aromas that install presence and memory. Sense memory is no joke. It can trigger everything from Oscar performances to acts of human anguish. From selling us exorbitantly over-priced homes via false cookies, to afternoons changed by three stanzas of a song. Beside a garden wall, I remember a lot of things. The smell of your hands, behind your ear, the scent the wind carried when I realized we were saying goodbye. The roar your engine conveyed as the loop of the City hit the plugs. The song I could not sing will swell years from now, and I will be once again anew.There are things you know, like, don't bet against the house, and that purple looks bad on everyone, that will ring true long past Sunday. And no matter how long you argue, you gut wins out. I don't want to sing Little Bird to this yet, but I am beginning to ask hard questions about a lot. But past everything, I once knew happy. So that's something. Goodnight, Gracie.

head check.

It's been a bit. Two weeks ago, someone who was first inline for blame, and past anger, passed. Passed while I paid a tab. Passed alone in what I consider sorrow, but now, autonomacy, left. Left alone in a nightshirt with her name tag, an amethyst pendant, and some earrings. Things collectable in a box. A bag thrown carelessly, that spoke volumes to me. She couldn't call, so the calvary came. Then, when the law stepped in, so, by lineage, so did I. I decided we had three days. Not on purpose, if such a thing is decided when you say it, but more by tolerance. On the fifth day, we mourned. Publically. Grown men cried. She would have felt resonance in that, a sense of justice and peace. He came. And awkwardly spoke to me in front of my Father, and for that, alternately, fuck him, and also, good for you, you ridiculous, sad man. In the never-ending wave of her love, you faltered. But you came uninvited. She would have loved that. I sit here, writing about this, these words, unintelligible, the first in years. Maybe this has weight. Regardless, I am here. You, gone, with your reverence for life, reserect a sense of, a sense of a voice in the night. My voice. I find myself after you are gone. After I cannot speak to you again, in either thanks, or judgement. You are past that now. All words are ours, and any here-after is the gamble of fools and dreamers. But I decide you hear me, and I say, Damn it, Mom. Thank you for my strangled voice, and fuck me for my anger. But that is mine, and I must finally own it. The Irish Goodbye was well-played. The credit to you is well done. Your new garden is well kept. We beat our breasts, and gnash our teeth, and sing our songs, so off-key. Good night, tall-small lady. I can say, no one was able to forget you. And many loved you. Sleep well, and feel that love, so poorly shown. Good night, Kathleen Flanagan Coffey. Forgive me for my poor spelling, and this obituary that speaks only to words unsaid. I wished to love you in the ways you should have been. I will never meet your like. Thank you.

Midnight Gifts...

Sometimes you look for words, friends lost long ago it seems, everyday, they feel to slip further away. You grasp tenuously for meaning and a sense of self understanding. Lost, you continue on. Tonight, after a meaningless shift, and the fulfilling of promises kept, rewarded by cheap wine and the best of company, everything for a moment becomes clear. You are not adrift, so much as learning a new way. It doesn't matter that your direction is obvious, so much as it is open. You and they are new, your course, and theirs, is of the ones keeping. You love what you love, and you hold onto what is dear. To each of you, I say this; look around. What was so yesterday, belongs there. For tonight is anew. I wish you well, littles. A bowl full of stolen coral, and a capricious cat are my immediate. Also, I think of my laughing friend, a few thousand miles away. I am coming, Nurk. Prepare yourself.

What's funny is... What's funny is life is a circle. Patterns, if uninterrupted, repeat. And only you can change them. History is remarked upon by wars, nature and, well, human nature. When I was littler, I was enraptured by a television show entitled Connections. I was floored by the concept that everything is linked. A gentleman with an engaging Scottish accent explained seemingly random facts and perspectives, as if a seamstress using words and ideas armed like a needle and thread, weaved, till everything was sewn up tight. But reality is not neat. Nor are the feelings, and the repercussions of said emotions, patterns, and experiences. Much like that moment in a car crash, your skull rattling against itself at that sensation of impact, too real to ever properly describe in a blog post or a conversation, that moment where sensory is all you have. If unchecked, that experience, will undoubtedly reoccur. Tonight, I am getting out of that car, surrendering to Dorothy, and walking away. Goodnight Gracie. Hale and Farewell.