Ate so damn much after I got back that my gut’s got an echo. I couldn’t play percussion in the wild while I lay back on dirt and rocks, all digging into my back. The sound of my torso was flat as thigh flesh. All slap, no boom. Then I had a burger and some pizza and tacos. Then I had several of beer and whisky (the fucking Macallan 18) for good measure. Then I sang and they let me sleep on my side on the floor—the dry, heavenly ground of civilization. Oh, this. I felt the tears well up. Self-possessed for so long I’d forgotten that there’s a lot that’s got to be let up for a breath.
I can play mambo now when I ponder. Babaloo.
Sometimes, it’s just there’s not much point to living, is there? I mean, chaotic nature of the universe aside, it feels like it’s all just happening. That’s a big part of everything. What’s happening versus what’s being done unto the world. A sort of control that’s about as faulty as love from the ether, coming in from without. There’s no love’s gonna fix the world, but I’d live for some more of that good love, the kind that’s in here.
That’s about all I thought in love terms. The rest was Jesus, this pack is heavy. Jesus, that’s a hell of a fucking landscape. Jesus, I miss my bed. Jesus, I didn’t leave a note with anyone. Jesus, I’ve never broken a bone. Jesus, I’ve got to ____________________________.
I took in a pair of kittens when I returned.
Back now among neat cushions and a full belly. It was damn plain, you know. Never been good at affection for the sake of affection. Something ingenuine about it. No fault of anyone’s as there’s nothing to fault. What I can do is I, of sound hands and mind, build a bed, a cat tree house, and a bar. Buy food, medicine, and try something different—the leap of faith. Care for a couple of little ones and bring them along where ever it all leads.
I’ve got some flying scheduled in two weeks.