The 27th day of August

It's an old story now. I am sure you are tired of hearing about the grand Oregon Maple in Loyalty Park, of the seal off near the ferry there at Pt Defiance. I know that I have mentioned the rugs at Ikea, the pears at Tacoma Boys, faking out the sales clerks at the furniture warehouse in Sumner so many times it feels like scripture. It was a full day we shared that day. We went different directions at the end of the road, you to the 'Woods and full house, me to a house that was empty except for the sound of loud music and pacing. I played David Bowie and Herb Alpert that night, wrote you long letters, told you about the tunes and you wrote back, telling me that you'd listen to whatever it was I wanted you to hear. It was axsweet and wonderful agony we spent apart that night, but then came the dawn and all that agony and bliss went away. We went onto other things and that, my dear, is really the story of our lives.

Five years laters the sweetness and agony of that day still lingers. The poetry is still inscribed on the sidewalks off on the boardwalk there in Tacoma, Ikea still imports it's beautiful wool rugs. That little hamburger stand in Sumner still makes the best malteds and the pears are still stacked, firm and crisp, there off the aisles in Tacoma Boys. A lot of things have come and gone since that day. My old Bowie tape has worn out, the paint on the walls has changed. My life is so much different now and that is okay, too, because the anger I was wearing on my sleeve at the time was debilitating. The sorrow of losing my kids has mellowed, but that's only because I know where to find them and they know how to get ahold of me.

The biggest difference is in the knowing, knowing that our time as friends, when we could talk, laugh together, write, all that, has, for all intents and purposes, flown. So, I have to ask,when a person goes away like that does that mean it's the end of a friendship? When you run into someone on the sidewalk out of the blue does that mean when you meet them you are no longer friends but strangers in passing? I like to think that whenever I see you it's only been a short passage of time since I've seen you last. It's easy to want to catch up, even if my heart is racing and my mind is all befuddled.

Five years has come and gone since that day we met on the fly at Ikea. Your sister flew back that morning to whereever it was she was going, I left behind housework and got on the road on a whim. It was the best day I ever took a chance on. It left behind an indelible mark on my heart and soul, one that neither time or distance or social propriety can erase.

Be good, happy, all that, M and I will see you again somewhere down the road. I'll stop by here every now and then, leave clues about life, tell you how things are going. But otherwise, happy trails to you, Professora and I'll see you at sunset!

Love always, your WHMB

Lastly, Los Lobos singing "Sabor a Mi"...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rU-LeccqS48

Seven years and change

Goodness, look at the changes! But, then again, outside of death and taxes change is the only thing you can expect out of life, right? Love? Yeah, I have been lucky. Happiness? Fleeting but sweet. Great sunsets? Thank goodness for the smog, a bit of patience, perfect timing and a good sense of aesthetics.

Looking back over the seven years since I've met you I have to say that life delivered up everything possible that went to the right and left of what I had expected. Nothing, outside of me being on top of the dirt and still living in this house, is the same as when I first saw your name on that application all those summers ago. I can't say that all the changes have been for the better but all I can say for certainty is that those changes, good, bad, indifferent and otherwise, have made me a better man.

You might wonder why I say better when to look at my situation, say, in comparison to yours, is worlds apart from what I had when I met you. Back then I was actively married, had my kids around me, had a good paying job, respect, admiration, all that. Well, I suppose I can say that I am a better man because, in losing all that, I have been tested by fire. I found my life wanting and instead of eating from the same old trough, instead of being satified with the status quo, I let it all go. Or it drove away down the drive. Or it was full out taken away from me. I suppose, too, in some cases I pushed the envelope, took that plate of same-ol', same-ol' and tossed it in the face of the cook. I know for sure in many cases the antics I pulled off were not subtle, but then again, to pick up the paper and read about life is to note that life is anything but.

I have to wonder if we met today would you care for me. I am sure you if you stood the two men, then now and then side by side you would note that the charm and zest and world changing awe of one would be a bit different from the other. Looking at myself in the mirror I can tell that my hair is thinner, that I've gained a few pounds, that my nose is being to show the ravages of a bit too much wine. I can see that my eyes have seen a lot, that the lines in my face are a bit deeper, are showing the wear and tear of hard living. Some might say that those lines are there due to wisdom finally setting in, I say that those cracks and crevices in my face are there due to hard fought battles, too little sleep, too much time spent away from my children, a bit too many worries about money, all too much time thinking about you. But then, you see, that's been a big part of my life the last seven or so years. Most certainly the last five.

We are the verge of a five year anniversary. Tomorrow is the big day. I told myself I would start to throw sheets over the furniture here, start to ready this shop for shuttering. But last night, five or so in the morning, after I roused myself from the couch, let the cat in, took myself to bed, I started thinking about writing this piece, about this last round-up of words for you, and I had to laugh. It wasn't a gut wrenching sort of laugh, but a slight chuckle, the kind you might utter when you think of your kids and their antics, the type you might let slip in line at the grocery store or the bank when you think of a silly joke or a scene from a movie. I let that little guffaw go because I know, in my heart of hearts, that shutting this site down is to say, yeah, I am done, put it away, M is and has been long gone. What a laugh.

But.

And there's the but.

M, I haven't stopped, really, running into you yet. I thought for awhile I wanted to move away just to make that happen, sort of like selective surgery. Tired of looking at that nose? Cut it off to spite the old girlfriend type of thing. Well, I haven't gone anywhere and no, it just can't be helped, that running into you thing. It's this small town, my obsession, all that. I still run into you everywhere: on line, in social networking tools, in the newspaper, out taking walks, at the grocery store, passing by on the highway, following behind me on the street in your car. Who am I to think that by closing this place you will magically go away? What a laugh. It might take a bit more than that, say, a frontal lobotomy or something, to get you out of my mind.

Yet I know the time I spend here, most of which has been spent rummaging around in that satchel of ours, is something I need to set down for awhile. As I mentioned earlier, things have changed. I have a movie house job lined up thanks the dearth of work in my profession. The kids are beginning a new school year in Boise and are growing up fast without much of an influence from their father. The yard is overgrown, I am behind one payment on the house, the larder is full, the cat comes and goes when he pleases, my mom is three years in the grave and I have all too many movies and not enough time to watch them all. Thanks to you I have hundreds of cookbooks, a handful of relationships that have tanked because nobody could live up to the standards you set. I have a serious coffee jones going on again, I've gained back all the weight I lost when I was walking regularly and the rooms that needed to be painted are now done and out of the way.

I no longer drive a Honda (but you do). I find that I am lot more tolerant that I used to be, that I am not seeking out love or the Grail or even fortune, but instead, I just want a bit of peace in my soul, a nice small job close at hand that feeds my passions and a friend in my life that is true, that isn't going to run away, who isn't going to turn their back on me because of God or a bigger house or a whatever other fascinations lie over the rainbow.

Changes have come into my life, Melissa and darlin', I can say unequivocally that a lot of those changes were brought about just from knowing and loving you. As I said to you that time I ran into in the 'Woods, I have no regrets about any of it. Well, maybe one, and that is that I didn't tell you right then and there, maybe for the last time, that I still love you, woman. Saying that even as I lock up the storm windows, turn off the gas and lock down the water main of this little house of wonders.

This place, wonderful home of memories, will still be a way station come those times when I find I really need to say something to you. Expect a word now and then. Otherwise, be good, happy, all that.

Wally

Snow Falling on Cedars in the midst of summer

I finally caught the film adaption of Snow Falling on Cedars last night. I was tired and worn from the road, aching because I had to leave my kids behind in Boise again. I am sure that if CalCoPO had continued we would have found a way to fit that book title into our monthly reads, but, instead, it was good enough just to catch the film. I was finally open to seeing it and receptive to the message, well, one the messages, anyway.

There is something to be said for letting go. Sometimes there needs to be a wrenching experience, a transcendent moment, to make it happen, to help folks, and life, move forward.

Looking at that film I could see that the lead character needed something monumental to understand that his old love for the lead actress was holding him back, keeping him from allowing small town justice to be served. His old worldview was in conflict with his mission, which was to serve justice, to help the accused rise above prejudice and the unfairness of his wee berg's political and economic leanings.

I should know about small town thinking, about prejudice, about moral absolutes, about grasping endlessly to the pains of the past. My old love for you has been long overdue for jettisoning. I finally got the message, can see that it has gotten in the way of gainful employment, that it went beyond the pale, irked folks' sensibilities at our former employ and helped bump up their moralistic fervors to the point of blacklisting me. But even more than that my holding onto the past has kept me from moving forward into a future with my kids. It was very clear to me as I crested the rise out of Ontario yesterday morning, sun coming up, the back seat empty. I came home off of a long and lonely roadtrip, off a drive that, back in the day, I would be furiously scribbling messages to you on the seat next to me as I drove. Yesteday it was all I could do just to get home, to stop for gas, coffee, a bit of food. The tears got in the way of really appreciating the beauty. The only messages I had this time were for myself, and that was, Peter Fonda style, saying, yeah man, I blew it.

The time to let go is upon me. I know that I've said this in the past but maybe this time I can do it. Maybe this time I AM at the bottom of the satchel. Maybe this time I can honor and appreciate that special date of ours, the 27th day of August, and, for all intents and purposes, finally say goodbye to that beautiful thing we shared. You did ages ago. I suppose, after all this time and heartache and grief, I need to do the same and stick to it.

What I would like for you to do someday is to stumble upon this site, just to see the process that I have gone through to sever those ties of ours. Maybe it's just me but I think this public chronicling is what was needed for me to move forward. You hid or ran away from it all ages ago, denied or buried or unassed our past in order to secure your future. I took in the chest for the both of us, became the poster child for some sort of living dead love monument. How old and moldy it has become. No one is fighting that fight for us anymore. It reminds me of those old Japanese warriors on Guam or the Philippines, the ones who were stuck in time, fighting a war that was long over. My uniform is in tatters, my gun rusty and bent, it's time to lay it all down, walk away, get out of the jungle.

Since this blog isn't going anywhere I can leave it be. Come the 27th I'll post what is hopefully the last post, make it searchable, all that. One last opening of the satchel for all to see. Why not? Everyone who saw us together back in the day knew we were in love. We thought we were cool about it but we were as open as a book. We were "sparky" and even then we pissed people off about it. But you know, buddy, it was then and will always be a beautiful thing. But "was" is the key operand word here. Time to close the book and put it on the shelf. Good Pages that we were, we can handle that. I can handle that.

Love, your WHMB

Out of the sky

So, my only story for the night is that I got off late from the movie house and then went home, cracked a bottle of very inexpensive white wine from Freddies and then proceeded to shut down lights in the house in order to get my eyes ready for the annual falling star show only to get the point where a movie, World's Greatest Dad, seemed more important to watch, thanks to the poster I see everytime I go up and down the stairs from the projection booth, a film I told my coworkers I passed up during the Hollywood Video closeout, one that they said was great and that I was a fool to have passed up on.

Well, I watched it as well I could knowing that the stars were falling and that the sky was clear and that lights were off in the alley behind the house. Each and every year I say that I am going to go somewhere dark and city free and see that grand pass of stars falling through the comets tails but do I do it? No, I continue to find a dark and quiet spot in my backyard that looks promising and then look up into the sky, look for the really bright ones to go flashing by, to see if the big one, the truly big ones, rate this neck craning activity that I have been indulging in for almost all the years I have been here in the Pac Nor West.

I have to wonder, now that it is the next day and nobody seems to have watched or cared about the Perseids if you even bothered to watch them this year, if your brother in law was in town, if he squired you, escorted you out to that local ball field to watch the show. I wonder if your man could be bothered, or, if all that was too much to ask, if you woke up and stared at the ceiling, applying your superhuman powers and looked through the roof and the trees and the cloudcover and took the sight that darlin I would have happily shared with you whether I was rich or poor, young or old, healthy or infirm.

Somehow I think we both were looking up at the sky, wondering where the big ones were at, wondering if the really BIG ONE, the love of our life, the real COMET, the REAL shooting star of our lives somehow passed us by while we were inside making popcorn, making excuses, making up for all the ragged sadness that passes for love in a world full of folks who keep that love held ransome, ransome until they realize that people's hearts about as easy to hold onto as those shooting stars we saw fall through the night sky.

Your WHMB

Storyteller

There wasn't much of a chance that I would get my shoes dusty today as it has been raining on and off for the past two days. I spent an hour at the track, walking the walking, talking the (interview) talk. Tomorrow I get to spend a half hour weaving magic with the Pierce College bunch via video cam. It all blew up in our faces last week, put me in a terrible funk that I was bound and determined to rise above today. I managed to do that and get in a good walk as well.

Talking yourself up during an interview is not too much different than storytelling. For awhile I was well paid performer. I learned from masters, honed my craft in front of school age children and their parents, in front of large groups, birthday parties, for charity, in churches, on the road and once for a llama backpacking group high in the Siskyous. I took those ancient words, those dusty and wonder filled tales up and down the West coast, formed two guilds, amassed a large collection of bound tales and learned enough stories to carry on the magic for at least an hour or more in front of a crowd. It wasn't just fairy tale recitation, I became the story. I learned the art of improv and turned those tired old stories into fresh and imaginative tellings, each one a little different from the last, all the while tuned into my rapt and turned on audience.

It was that storytelling talent that first drove me to get my shoes dusty five summers ago. You had a talent contest to attend and couldn't quite figure out what you wanted to do. I figured I had an easy answer to that: learn a story. I was once again telling fairy tales to my kids after a long hiatus from the art. I would find an old story deep in the folds my brain and then, with the ninos on my lap and couple beers in me, I would spin a few threads of magic, just to keep that font of sweetness and light flowing between me and my brood. So we chatted up your dilemma. Should you sing a song, tell a joke, do something spellingbinding, dangerous or witty? In the end I volunteered to teach you a tale or two. I rounded up folk tale books from the branch's fairy tale collection and got a few moments of your time after work. It was late July, early August. You were on your summer break from home schooling, had time to burn before you went home, and life, for me, almost required the break.

There was a junior high track by the branch, hot and dusty during the day, cool, removed and dusty still in the late afternoon and early twilight. We took those books and put them away in your van and then proceeded to burn up an hour walking round and round the track, you choosing to listen rather than learn, me, well, I enjoyed telling you those old and moldy tales. It was like grad school all over again, it was a first time telling in front of a wide eyed group of youngsters. You were happy for the attention, I was happy for the audience. Synergy at it's finest.

In the end you didn't recite stories or sing songs or tell jokes, instead you passed on the talent show part of the party and had a good time instead. Me, I turned those turns around the J high track in East Bremerton into a reason to keep up the sweating close to home. Instead of going home with dusty shoes right after work I would go home and change into broken down tennies and get dusty on my side of town, instead.

I went out walking today and once again, five years later, I have thirty five or forty pounds to lose. I don't have the impetus that I had before, but, then again, better health and lower blood pressure and clothes that fit just a bit better than they do now is reason enough to walk those hours, to kick up that dust, drop some pounds, spin some stories in my head as I go round and round the track. Tomorrow I have an interview, we'll see if that old storytelling magic of mine is as good as it used to be.

Love, your WHMB

"She had, umm, umm..."

"..kisses sweeter than wine.."

One thing I loved about working in the Paging Department was the discharge shift. Busy, fast paced, on my feet, always hustling, music fueled. We had a democratic music system there in the back room: whoever was at the discharge desk was in charge of the deck. So it was there that I discovered Jimmie Rodgers again, long after those long ago days when my pop would spin his hits on his portable record player.

Maybe it was music your people played, too, that you had fond memories of, no matter, there it was, softly playing in the background on your shift at the desk. It had been years since anyone I knew cared about that old pop singer of old folk hits. It was just another thing that I found endearing, if not plain old quirky, about you. We both grooved on his songs, cool, and if not together, at least there across the room from one another.

This weekend Jimmie popped up again. It wasn't really even noticed at the time, wasn't till I got back home and sat down and started writing this piece. What a weekend it's been, one filled with too much down time. Thank goodness for my movie shift this afternoon as I need a reason to make my way out of this house, out from behind the computer, back into the land of the living, and not just as a customer in the midst of a ten second exchange with a merchant. I need flesh and blood and plenty of real time, face to face, interchange.

All to the good considering I woke up this morning with heavy remnants of strange dreams still working their way through my head. Those late night visitations have been hard to shake and what's worse is that a song, a song we shared long ago, has kept them at the forefront of my mind.

It was probably the supper that did it. Might have been the day, too. Been five years now, five years on this path. I dodged the heaviness of it all all day long, kept myself busy, cooked, cleaned the fridge, wrote to folks, kept above it. But things have a way of catching up, of ambushing you, and so they did. I ate well, drank well, popped in a couple movies and then, sleepy eyed, turned out the lights.

So, enflamed by Riesling, approved by Bacchus, I went into vino fueled sleep, one tightened down and made easier by a heaping platter of cole slaw, lime and chili marinated flank steak and a fistful of baked potatoes. It wasn't a restless sleep until you appeared. Maybe it was my focus earlier in the day on the family decamping five years ago, maybe it was a case of just too much time spent on my own in this house, or maybe it's just because I am tired of the path I'm on and need someone, something, to give me some serious direction but nevertheless, there you were, center stage in my dreams, unbidden, unasked for, but a key player nonetheless.

Somehow the Estranged One's sister brought you to me, as you were both members of the same parish or church, something like that. She walked me through your house and there you were. Somehow I found you in the living room, partially clad, your long pale flank was exposed, but, once it was tucked away we went away, out the door, arm in arm. That stroll didn't last long as I woke up out of the dream, highly perturbed. My heart was racing and yet, strangely, I wanted to get back in, and somehow, I did. The second pass was stranger, as I kept having to dodge the Detective in your house. You were moving to Kansas in that dream, our kids, much younger, were interfiled, household things were scattered everywhere and somehow I was left in charge of pick up, all the while having to stay out of the way of you and your man.

That was enough for me, and thanks to the cat I woke up again, this time at a reasonable hour, six or seven, not so much refreshed but hungering for a real visitation, a honest to goodness siting. So I fueled up on coffee, put in a short road trip, hung out under the overpass and waited for nothing, then came home to face yet another day, but this one with the built in work shift. Thank god.

But what sealed that dream in concrete this morning was hearing Jimmie Rodgers sing Kisses Sweeter than Wine. It's the lead song on a compliation I picked up at Starbucks during that last heart rending road trip I made to Boise. I spun that cd this morning waiting for you to pass and song after song seemed to be so appropriate, seemed to conjure you up, seem to recall that fevered dream you were so recently part of. But that one particular song fairly reeked of long shelved sentiment and times spent wishing for, or maybe, just dreaming of, times long gone. Yeah, maybe, in this case, after seeing what I saw last night in those dreams, maybe those times, those memories, those emotions we shared, maybe were just plain made up, figments of my imagination, the stuff of hard charging, heavy sweating paging duties. Maybe, maybe not, but all I know for certain is that dream of you last night was most certainly fueled by a very nice, very sweet and lovely bottle of Riesling.

Ummm, ummm, baby, your kisses were sweeter than wine.

Peace, your WHMB

Kisses Sweeter Than Wine
Words & Music by Paul Campbell & Joel Newman**Recorded by Jimmie Rodgers*, 1957 (#3)Also recorded by Peter, Paul & Mary; First recorded by The Weavers, 1951

Em D C Bm

When I was a young man and never been kissed
Am Bm7 Em
I got to thinking it over what I had missed.
Em D C Bm
I got me a girl, I kissed her and then, and then,
Am Bm7 Em
Oh Lord, I kissed her again.

Chorus:
G D9 Em B7 Em
She had kisses sweeter than wine, she had
G D9 Em B7 Em
Oh - oh kisses sweeter than wine.

I asked her to marry and be my sweet wife,
And we would be so happy the rest of our lives.
I begged and I pleaded like a natural man,
And then, Oh Lord, she gave me her hand.

Chorus:

I worked mighty hard and so did my wife,
Workin' hand in hand to make a good life.
With corn in the field and wheat in the bins,
I was, Oh Lord, the father of twins.

Chorus:

Our children they numbered just about four,
They all had sweethearts knockin' at the door.
They all got married and they didn't hesitate;
I was, Oh Lord, the grandfather of eight.

Chorus:

Now that we're old, and ready to go,
We get to thinkin' what happened a long time ago.
We had a lot of kids, trouble and pain,
But, Oh Lord, we'd do it again.

Chorus:

*While there's no question the Jimmie Rodgers version of the song scored higher on the charts, my personal preference for how to play it is fundamentally the Peter, Paul & Mary version. The choice of words and chording on the refrain is a synthesis of both. **The authors' names merit mention here, as well. The name "Paul Campbell" was the group pen name of the Weavers. The name "Joel Newman" was the pen name for Huddie Ledbetter, who was the source for many of Weavers' greatest hits in the late 40s and early 50s. The lyric and guitar chord transcriptions on this site are the work of The Guitarguy and are intended for private study, research, or educational purposes only. Individual transcriptions are inspired by and and based upon the recorded versions cited, but are not necessarily exact replications of those recorded versions.

The power of POF

When I set up your email account on Yahoo years ago, the first thing you wrote me humbled me to the core. You said something to the effect that it was a place you could call your own. Not a family box, not a shared place, but one where you could come and go and your words would be for me and no one else but me.

You fairly blossomed there, always finding a way to sneak off and write a line, to jot down a feeling or a memory or share a story about your life, your family, your times. There were many days where I felt that I was part of your ongoing story, and while, on the most part, and to most people, I was an invisible presence, I was still there with you, side by side on your many adventures. It was an almost daily occurance, that quick message or more in my email box. In was never about quantity, it was all about quality, the shared moment, the sweet and oh so normal raft of words. As you put to me as the months unfolded, I made the words, you made the time and for a long while that worked.

Then it all came down upon your head. Your computer time became suspect, your history was opened and followed and finally, your email box discovered, opened by password or by mistake.

So, I was left without a correspondent. I wrote you and for awhile dodged your sensor, finally, though, he demanded complete and total access to all your email accounts. Our long run ended ignobly.

I have to wonder if writing was our primary pleasure port? Those words meant a lot of things to us. Truly, our words were inflammatory, they were tools to help incite riot, promote unrest. They brought down the house on your end of town, helped to bring down my marriage on mine. Indeed, not only did they turn my marital world upside down but they also helped push me out of a job. What a thing our words became, amazing how they still continue to piss off folks who really don't have a vested interest in where our hearts dwelled or where they have flown to since.

So, you left a void impossible to fill. I've sought out other writers out of loneliness and boredom, not so much to replace you but to keep that skill sharp. One time I found a flagrantly impetious writer on the other side of the mountains, much too keen for sharing her words and more. She went much too far and left her world behind because of what she gleaned from our exchanges. There were never hard promises given but she flew high on the wings of desire, left all she knew because she became drunk, ney, unstable, on the heady drafts of our words. She crashed and burned hard. I will always feel bad about that.

There have been all too many since then that imagine that they are writers or think that they understand the power of the pen and the keyboard. All to many have flailed about in their attempts to convince me or have tossed their hearts under the bus much too soon, their sneakers tripped up in the landmine fields of love, lust and impossibility. I stumbled into the Land of POF awhile back. All too many possible correspondents there to choose from, all too many who start up, tease me with their words, find that I am not their Prince Charming or Daddy Warbucks and then go away, allowing themselves a few fantasy moments with me and then, when the reality check arrives, back up and slither away.

I am weary of the game. Where are the real writers? Where is the true heart? All I want is to find a letter in my mailbox, one that is written with a sense of purpose, something will will inflame me, a letter that will show me that the writer is happy to share not only share bit of her day but also a bit of that long lost heart I crave as well. But I suppose you can't hit the same spot twice. To hit it once with you was enough. But continue to write I will, even if the end result is a sort of love letter to you by proxy.

Your WHMB

"They share loneliness"

It's been five years. Not five years since we shared that lovely day together, the one that culminated with that kiss on my neck that will forever and always branded me cosmically, psychically...no, five years since the Estranged One bundled up the kids, packed out the van, lassoed her sis into coming along for the ride and set out for a two week "vacation" in Idaho, under the auspices of seeing her folks, taking a break, getting some sun.

I was left with a house that took three weeks to clean. It was in the midst of that cleaning when you came by with coffee, left your lipstick stuck on the edge of one of the paper cups you brought along. We were already on the edge of infamy, toying around with extreme friendship, playing with the flaming torch set-up, not yet lighting them but practicing all the juggling moves.

So, I sat in my living room today and marvelled at the extent of my loneliness. I don't quite know why that is, why I am lonely, why I feel I need to be. I have had two consorts pass through this place over the summer, one rabid for my attention, the other quite pissed off because I wouldn't jump onto her fantasy train. I have two volunteer jobs that fill my life and time with people, but stranger still, when given the chance to go in this week to fill up my time with people I preceeded to use the week as a sort of unpaid vacation. I wasn't on the schedule and hey, I'm not on the payroll, either. So I spent the week not walking or working around the house but prepping for an interview that blew up in my face. The ride to Steilacoom was nice, nostalgic, all that, but everything else I did...read, write, cook, watch movies, sip wine on the porch while the sun went down in flames over the Olympics...was all very invisible to the rest of the world.

Today marks five years since the family decamped but life goes on. I talk with the Estranged One regularly, almost every day, to what end I don't know. I am on the edge of finding work, always sending out applications, where all those efforts will take me is still uncertain. Time passes for all of us, my oldest old enough to drive a car, on the edge of finishing his primary educational path, the youngest starting Kinder in the fall. I have yet to test that wonky car of mine on the other side of the mountains to see if the repair job took. It's my turn once again to do the drive to Boise, to once again make my way back to my children. I have discovered the hard way that no matter how many times I make that drive I cannot turn back time, cannot make those days, those early angst filled days, go away or return. I sometimes wish for that righteous anger, for those days when I knew I could be lonely, sad and would be coming back home to you.

I sometimes wonder if we had never met would I still be in the same predicament. Would I have replaced you with someone else? Or were you slotted to be in that place at that time, were you born in that little town in Colorado and guided by some unseen hand to be there for me and for me to be there for you, in that vast city park, in my arms, in that one momentary embrace that ended in a brief kiss on my neck, one that forever and always changed the world as I know it?

I cannot do more than make the drive to Boise. I cannot turn back the tides, I cannot keep my children from growing, no more than I can somehow get you to open your heart or your door or even your keyboard for me. So if loneliness is the order of the day today it's because I willed it to happen, commanded it, desired it. I was given the chance many times over to turn it around but rather, instead, I occupy this house high on the hill, watch the sun rise and set, watch messages come and go, watch shadows cross my threshold, return flaming hearts to senders, see the days fall off the calendar and know, in all of that, that we met for one thing and one thing only, and that was to share our loneliness.

You and I were meant to meet on that plain of loneliness. And somehow, whether or not you are back in his arms with your family and friends all around and regardless of whether I am here in this house, or poised and ready to do another 12 hour run to Idaho, I think we are both still there, aching, wondering, where our right arms have disappeared to.

Your WHMB

Thanks, Roger, for this lovely review: Lost in Translation:
http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20100804/REVIEWS08/100809996

"Stumbling towards improvement" Mr Ebert, again: Spanglish:

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20041216/REVIEWS/41201005/1023