*

 

I woke up one day and I didn’t want to make any art and I didn’t want to come here because I had nothing to say.

 

You know how it is.

 

So, I been okay. Living life, not analyzing it, I suppose. Been doing a lot of shooting and fighting. Reading Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Babysitting Dear Leader.

 

I feel like I’m talking to you through a glass wall. Like a jail visit. The important thing is to say that I’m glad you came, I really am. And I miss you all something terrible. But having fallen out of the habit of this, I feel awkward and uncertain. What I love about this place is that the things I say have meaning for me, and what you say back does as well. I don’t like small talk.

I like big talk. Deep talk.

The other stuff feels like death to me, worse than isolation. The gulf that surrounds each of us is deep and wide enough- it seems we should latch onto each other should we ever cross it, latch onto each other and stare into each other’s eyes and hold hands and say what’s really going on.

So when I show up and I feel like my mouth is full of marbles and sand, it seems impossible to do what I come here to do.

So I yet stay apart.

 

*

 

Everything here is golden and light filled and breezy. Maybe I am stuck in a rut. Maybe I will never fix what’s wrong with me. But I care less and less about that. Of late I feel content to merely drift along downstream, my fingers dangling in the sweet water, my unshod feet on the gunwale, my eyes shut against the sun, sounds of birds in the trees and the knock of stones turning in the streambed.

Don’t need to warn me there’s a big waterfall coming up. I know it.

For now, though, the river is wide and slow moving and there seems almost no danger in it.

 

*

 

In other news, my wife grows more glorious and beautiful by the day. You know how we all become more and more our true selves as we age, and how in most of us this may not be a good thing at all- but in her I see the burnishing of an odd and beautiful stone. The years only seem to make her glow more brightly, what’s lost is only what got in the way of her inner light.

It’s unbearable to watch her sometimes. You don’t know what to do with yourself.

She is a thing unto herself, yet I have bound her to me, or me to her. It’s all the same. Maybe she is diminished by her capture. I hope not. I’d not let her go either way.

I got my own aims in this world.

 

*

 

Namaste.

 

***

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