I’m back home after four days in Vegas. A trade show for guns and various tactical gear. State of the art, bleeding edge ways to kill people, plus gambling.
I didn’t gamble.
It was fun, in a kind of nightmarish way.
But best of all was coming home again. To the woman on the verge and the bull dog. To our home sweet home and the stillness and quiet and deep, deep comfort of it.
The love in our home will knock you down. It does me.
I’m nearing fifty and I’m still a mystery to myself. Mostly I can’t figure out why I can’t fix what’s wrong with me. These stubborn flaws. Bad for me, bad for those around me, bad for the world, yet I can’t get a handle on them.
Can’t or won’t, one.
Ah, well, what’s interesting about perfection?
Not a damn thing.
Last week I found the skull of a small animal on one of my runs. I picked it up and brought it home and asked the woman on the verge if she could clean it up for me.
Which she did.
Run and tell that, home boy.
I’m going to make falafel tonight. I’m craving musky flavors melded with garlic and bright lemon, bread and yogurt and kalamata olives, crunch and chew and smoke and thrill.
There is stone at the center of my heart.