Sunshine

A quick post. Back home again. This nomadic lifestyle suits me for the moment. Three days coming and going from the old homeland and after all that road time and mucking about at the old spread I am happy to be back here, nestled up against the hills, sunshine over head and the clouds, the ones that never seemed to go away there, banished for the moment.

I am still waiting for news from New Jersey or New York. I am still working towards some sort of action that will do the French Foreign Legion thing as far making me forget you, or rather, in the case of my surroundings, to put me in a place that has no links with you. I love this little burg but baby, you color it like a bad cold. I'd love to shake you but that time we spent together gets in my hair damn near everywhere I go here on the West Coast. I figure a few thousand miles and the view of a different ocean us ought to do it.

But for the time being the space of five hundred miles is enough to make me happy. I will not be going back to the dreariness of the Sound again until late spring, sometime after my best friends wedding. Even then it will only be to fill up my car, to eat a burger or two at Dicks, to make haste back to where my kids are, where I need to be.

Last night on that last stretch between Baker City and Boise I knew, I just knew, that my path, the one that was never clear when I was there, has been laid out before me and it's a good one. I love the uncertainty of it, the craziness of it, the random sweetness of it all. I am going somewhere and where that somewhere is, well, it's still a mystery to me. No peeking at the final paragraph of the tale. Waiting to savor the end of the saga. All that.

Thanks for taking on that big house, for staying with that guy of yours. I could have never afforded you, babe. Happy days to us all.

Love, your WHMB

Fish bowl

Ah, the 'net. All this considered this is really and truly the finest tool out there for gathering and disseminating information.

Went by to say goodbye, saw new curtains on your now former abode. "Where did she go?" I wondered. Well, say hello to my little friend, the online white pages. So, a new house, a new neighborhood, complete with water view.

Funny how the tangents of this story continue to blast off into new and interesting lands. You got the Honda, I got the Ford. You got the guy with the goatee and the tropical shirts, and now I have the beard. You have the half million three thousand square foot gilded birdcage and I have my lovely walk up in a historic building. My life crashed and burned around me and I now, somehow, spectacularly, risen out of the ashes. A bit worse for wear and tear, a bit ragged around the eyes, but here and kicking. Still wondering how the hell I survived but I did, and somehow, I feel burnished by the heat, by the sorrow, by the utter hell of living a life so emotionally on fire. Purified. Sanctified. All to the good.

And you, my dear? You and yours? What did you learn? What did you gain besides square feet, a bigger ride, a much larger thumb over your life? I am curious and know, too, that I will never know truly what you feel, how you weigh all that stuff out. I know, I know, life moves on and yours did in a truly spectacular fashion. I will never doubt your love but will always wonder what really it meant to you. Love. What really does that stuff honestly and truly mean in your life?

Yeah, maybe I think I know. A nice bank account. A cool new car. Vacations to far away places. Kids in private schools. And a new place in an even tonier subdivision, a house on the lake. How cool.

For me, love is like still waters in a tepid fish bowl. For now I keep from stirring the waters, keep my head clear, my heart full and solid and well guarded at the borders. For me love is my children, my health, my focus and as for the latter my eye is on the East Coast. New Jersey. NYC. Let's see how far away from you I can get and still manage to keep that strange and complex flame we shared alive, even if it's just a reflection off of the waters of a dime store fish tank.

Peace and happiness to you, Melissa.

W

By the rules

It was six months ago today that the Detective called me at work. Dragged me away from a bit of business with the boss. Pretty much made it clear that he didn't want me dropping you messages via Facebook anymore, that you would never write to me again, that they dragged you in, inquisition style, when I was busted for these posts back in '09. Seemed right at the time to say, of course, I won't write her anymore, when he asked me not to. Seemed like the right thing to do when he said that those posts, however kind, however friendly, made you sad. Who am I to make you sad, M? So, I have been good to my word. Not a peep, not a syllable, not the slightest vowel or consonant or number.

I feel good about that. And at the same time, sad. Sad in knowing that somehow I gave up, or let go, or that something said to loud and clear, finally: "end game".

But as I told my good friend BB one cool fall night here recently, I feel, that right up to the end, I was honest to myself, that I behaved, however foolishly, honorably, too. I have no regrets about hanging on, of letting the world crash down around me, to allowing myself the selfish pleasure of being the last man on the hill, the one left to sit with the ragged standard, in the dying gasp of light of love.

So, my life has moved on, like the Detective said of your life over there.

I have used that time, that time away from here, to see to things that needed tending to. I made a long sought for peace with TEO. I had a summer with the kids by the municipal pool. I have taken trips to Washington to look after that poor old house of mine, one soon to go to the bank. I took two big trips, one to New York City, the other Cleveland, and enjoyed both thoroughly, both so much that I have applications out there, seeking employment in cities that I consider the last big step for my career.

I found that I am still the man who needs to provide so the distance that I see coming up between me and the kids is just one that has to be endured, as I see no help coming soon from their mom. The house, as I said, is falling down around my shoulders but I feel good letting it go. I spent the night there a few weeks ago, burned wood, cleared out the basement, cleaned the mess that the tenants left behind. I felt the web of the house, of sentiment, closing down around me and I knew that leaving the next day back to Idaho could not come soon enough.

I see that my life, however good it is here, is not meant to be spent here. It's like my pal Miguelito said to me as we trolled the streets of NYC: Wallito, your soul is too big for Boise. I felt that adventure, even if it's of the cultural sort, was waiting for me there. As much as I truly admired Cleveland and grooved on it's architecture and it's people it's Manhattan that I want to work in, live in, prowl around in.

I suppose I could have been buffaloed by you there as I managed, once again, to tell our story to innocent bystanders. But love is love and a good love story is timeless, especially one with a seemingly endless tragic ending. But regardless of the lions in front of the library, regardless of the "baked by Melissa" stands around town, regardless of the hopeless romantic who had to, just had to, have his photo taken in front of Tiffany's, I still thought of that place, that town, as more than future destination. I thought of it, think of it, as my salvation. I thought for sure that Boise would be it, but no. TEO has the lives of those kids too sewn up, to solidified. She is too afraid of letting loose of some of the control for if she did she knows that her life, forever bracketed in, would surely spin out of control. That's all too tight for me.

I find that my heart, however big, however hopeful, is not being let loose here. It's time, my dear, to fly, to make my way East, to make a bigger paycheck, to be better able to support those kids, to make it clear to TEO that however much I would have loved a reconciliation that I am gone, gone and far enough away to make that final break okay. With twenty four hundred miles between us we would not be able to see the final tears. All well and good.

So, there, my love, those are the words that have been saved up, been squirreled away, been kept from your eyes and his. It felt good, albeit hard, to keep to my word, but I have done it. Sure, I went by the house and it seems as if you are long gone. Sure, I pop in on your FB page to see if you have managed to update that silly ass photo of you and yours. And sure, when I was at conference, I told an old co-worker why I was let go, if only because I know she will tell the world, being that it's her nature to talk. I like it that that story continues to circulate around the neighborhood, the county, the internet. It makes me feel somewhat immortal, or, at the very least, up there with the pulp heroes and heroines of yore. A good story never dies, it just gets bigger.

Here's to the sixth annual celebration of the best road trip we ever took. Here's to October, a month we made into a sort of personal month long holiday. And here's to this man saying one thing and keeping to it. Can't guarantee it on your birthday, but for now, it's golden,

Love to you, M.

W

Christmas in August

Six years ago today I had what was probably the finest day of my life. I look back on it fondly, the way a man does on his favorite holiday memory. Some have feelings about grand days like wedding days, or the day of their first kiss, or the day they got the keys to their first car. But M, that day of days in my life, right up there with the birth days of my children, is the day that you gave me your heart, under that spreading Oregon Maple tree, there in Loyalty Park, back when we had the world by the strings and our hearts were not sullied by the heavier things that would, in the end, bring us down.

That day was like Christmas, presents and all. even if those presents, a light kiss on the neck, an Ikea catalog, an unfolding of the quilt on the grass, the slow ticking of moment, were all that we had to give.

That, and our hearts, yes indeed.

With love,

Your WHMB

Sweltering hot, dreams and visions of you

Ah! It's late, it's hot, come on in... It could have been the pesto pizza that I ate a bit too late last night. It might have been the mention of an eighty five degree temp that I saw on the bank sign on the way home, that particular bit of heat only exascerbated by the flat roofed, top floor apartment that I live in. I know I shouldn't drink anything with a buzz attached to it late at night as it always promotes a heavy sweat and a lot of tossing and turning this time of year. Whatever it was, it came late on late and took on the wee bit of time I had set aside for sleeping.

"This time of year". Ha! I have only really begun to live here "this time of year". I was just a visitor to the Treasure Valley in my recent past, a blur in my children's lives here in Boise for all too many years, always on the run from the heat of the sun and of the estranged one, choosing to come to visit during the cooler spring and fall months when I could linger and not sweat to death. This time around I cannot run back to the temperate climes of the Puget Sound, this time around I am part hostage, part willing slave to the weather and there is no angst attached to it, no fretting, no worries. On the bus with the doors open and the aircon blowing it's tolerable. At home at night with the fan roaring and the one room cooling swamp cooler doing it's thing, with the blinds drawn, it's okay. I know I'll be alive in the morning to tell the tale.

This place, this familar heat, reminds me a lot of where I grew up. The Southland. Summers in L.A. before the advent of unleaded gas, air thick with smog, hot bus exaust, bbq briquet vapors. Hot, sweltering afternoons, sweat pouring down our backs, public pools teaming with kids of all colors, always on the prowl for shade trees, moving water and ice cold drinks. Once again I am back into that same zone, that familiar level of heat, back into that hard beating sun, once again looking for and finding fun and cool things to do with the kids. I am loving it and at the same time, not caring too much about the heat, the occasional humidity, the wind kicking thunderstorms, the hard core lack of funding to do anything grand like fly to Disneyland or vacation in the islands. This year we are flying low, my love, we are doing those cool sort of Mexican family things: two dollar seats at the second run theater, afternoons after three at the pool, long walks along the river, indoor playtime with the fan and cooler blowing, riding bikes around the neighborhood, hanging out with a slice and cold drink at a table on the patio on one of the niftiest downtown streets I've ever grooved on after hours.

Baby, it's all good.

What is sometimes not so nice are the long nights when that shotgun shack of a place of mine stays hot much too long after dark. I don't have a thermometer but man, let me tell you, it stays toasty. Rivers of sweat soak my sheets, the cat, ever mewling, longs for the return of fall and cooler weather. And lately, during those long hot nights, the kind that promote endless tossing and turning, sour twisted linens, fleeting and fractured dreams, you have been there, an all-star player. You have come avisiting unbidden two nights running, one where you trotted out two new dogs and a cat, the other one, sporting unsolicited advice, in more of a cameo role.

I spent the rest of the day following that first visitation looking as I do for more signs that tell me, well, yep, you existed someplace along the line in my life. Then today, as I was working through the meaning of your nighttime prowling, I was reading some article about Tiger Woods and the break up he had with his caddy, how they mentioned that the traditional "get over the heartbreak" period of break up is twice as long as the actual running time of the relationship.

That should have put paid to everything years ago. BUT, and there's that Grand But again, this thing, this unfinished business in my heart, is anything but traditional.

Truly it's more along the lines of one of those dowdy old 50's film epics, the kind littered with a cast of thousands, packed with matinee stars that had their go and are now blanks in the collective minds of most Walmart movie shoppers. Maybe it's more like the story line in one of those tired long forgotten old Gothic romances that line the shelves of fern bars or oaky restaurants, the kind bought by decorators by the yard. Or maybe this is one of those long forgotten kinds of romances, the helpless hapless kind, the kind that tired scriptwriters favored for films that only seemed to shown on the late, late show, watched by tired old men who long for their misgotten pasts, by women who, overwhelmed by bon bons and a fruitless life, choose cinema deeds and loves over real ones.

Or maybe it's the kind of radioactive love that only shows up in the late of night, in the minds of the tired, the overheated, or in this case in the brain of a man who has washed up on the shore of a very cool, very hot and all too familiar kind of land. I think we can all use a good hard, sweaty kind of dream every once in a while. Ah, yes, the kinds that has us call out, when the all too familiar key player arrives, it's hot, come on it and grab a cool one. I'll be awake in a moment, once again, to the waking dream of a life well lived, in a lovely place, with my kids close at hand, working a job that, for all intents and purposes, is keeping me afloat, happy, content for the moment.

Yeah, I'm happy, M and yet.... still missing you.

Peace,

W

Briefly, in the warm summer breeze

The wind rustles the awning outside the bus. The weather is cooler today, a mid 80's day, a day that would have been warm back there in Port Orchard. The doors are open, classical plays lightly and the first big patron rush is over. All good, all restive, all keeping with the simple joy of work and the sanctity of place.

I've been going through the calendar year like a penitent. Every month, every season, almost every day is marked somehow in my heart, stained by salty memory. Maybe it's my old Catholicism coming through, maybe I like the mystical side of our doomed romance, maybe I am happy to be so far away from you, but no matter, it's all good. The summer parade of pictures in my mind unfolds like a slow old black and white melodrama. It has been opening slowly, like one of those dahlias that I used to love to plant in the yard. I am finding myself here but then again, I am also finding that I am shedding the years, the memories of yore, like cat hair. I look around my life here in Boise, look all around the floor and walls of my apartment and I continue to find bits and pieces of my old life,all interfiled with the new. Again, a good thing as I was holding on to the past all too dearly and found, that by letting the hardest part of them go, I can savor the sweet. Now that glorious past defines me, has made me the man that I am today, I needed to be in order to move on and be one with the present.

And yet, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you. Not a day, not a month, not a season is without it's momentary stops along the stations of memory.

These days it takes little to bring your face to the forefront of my mind, small things, like plums on the drive up to work recall other things, like story telling on the track, ripe blackberries off the vine, discussions over the differences between Spanglish and Lost in Translation, tire repairs at Sears and moonlight splashing over the wires. Right now I can see that we are on the verge of marking the calendar, ticking off days that brought lipstick stained coffee cups, trips to Ikea, Oregon Maple trees, all of it, into our lives. I am on the edge of the high holy season of our grand love affair and it's, well, it's okay. No weeping, no moaning, no long trips to do the circuit. These days I just close my eyes, say hello to you and wish you well and then get on with the days of my life.

It's all good, my old friend. Truly.

With love,

your WHMB

Toy Soldiers

I went to pick up the kids this morning, help get them ready and on their way to school. Some days they all make the bus but other days, well, they have strange sleep schedules there in that house of theirs. Always have.

So this morning it was my middle schooler's turn to miss his ride. No big deal, we never have enough time together as it stands, so any little excuse to play or chat or run him around to the homes of his pals or to school is okay by me. So we talked of classes, girls, old times. Toy soldiers, the extreme amounts of monies we used to throw down for personal collections and business stock.

He and I were "partners" in the business for a time. He was my own personal product tester, the kid who always called out to play when I walked through the door. But life unspooled like that Harry Chapin song, we never seemed to have enough time to get on the floor and do justice to that collection of ours. It was always tomorrow, mijito. Baby, tomorrow never comes.

So we chatted and made plans to get those boxes and storage bins back to Idaho, not so much for him but for his brother, who is now the age that he was when all that mess started years ago. I am excited for the youngest of the brood, for that wealth of loot will soon be at his disposal.

But toy soldiers are just part of the larger story. The fated marriage, the toys, the business, the house that stored them all, the plastic that was heavily leveraged to buy them, the spouse who encouraged, and then, at the birth of the aforementioned youngest, put paid to it all. Somehow it was all too much, too much time spent devoted to what was considered the family business, too much time spent apart second handing developing "cobble kits" for kids who couldn't afford the big priced items at the shows. We were excited, that middle schooler and me, back in the day when he was 10 and the world revolved around toys, playmates and his papa. We still have the goods but the lines are now prominent on my face.

TEO. The Estranged One. What a character she has become. She wants for me to bring those soldiers back from Washington, store them in her house, as if all those things were her property to control. I can already see where that whole story is going. The house, as it stands, is huge and custom built but is always a mess, always a challenge to navigate. I can see what will unfold once those boxes and bins of plastic start to unload onto the floor. Chaos.

The youngers have already laid claim to the floor of a master closet and bath just for Lego play. The living room is always strewn with paperwork, pillows cast aside from couches, shoes and clothes from yesteday's sports. How can it support plastic figures from a dozen or more eras? How can the mess that is compounded daily take on yet another hit? It could, I suppose, at the expense of all that plastic. Once underfoot it goes, bit by bit, unsalvageable, always prone to breakage, tossage, mediocrity.

TEO was a booster of all that plastic mayhem at one time, now she is just a bit mad. Too much responsibility to assume, too much baggage to endure, too many duties to perform, too many folks to blame for her situation. I am a man apart and that bugs her to know end. I am here to shuttle, to take on the kids, to help with with the sweeping, to make things go forward. I am the diplomat, an envoy from across time and space, the ambassador from the North End, a quiet reminder that all our plans, hopes, wishes and dreams can sometime go astray, fall apart, blow the fuck up.

I look at her and know that at one time I was willing to let the world fall apart just for the right to possess her. I left a life, a house, a wife, a job, a kid, a state, a reputation, a career, a history, all behind for her. Funny how the gods really don't go for that kind of stuff. Karmic justice was dealt out to me and baby, I am good with it.

Since then I have tried the "brave like me" gig and it didn't work. I went the extra mile to try to repair the damage and the ship went down anyway. But, I still have my heart, my health, my smile, my mind. The love of my kids. A basement full of toy soldiers and a place on the North End to splay all that stuff around in. I have my happiness and it has nothing to do with a woman. For the first time in my life.

Right now it's all about me. The kids. Life. And M, life is good. With or without you or TEO.

Kisses, mi amor,

Your Wild Half Mexican Man

Downfall and rebirth

It was a little over three years ago that I stood with a small select group of colleagues at the main branch of library system that I once worked for. We were there to celebrate the end of a quasi-mandatory 2 point Oh training session, one that purportedly thrust us into the contemporary future and coolness of all things social networky. I found that of all the weekly tasks we had to perform, learn, jump through and analyze that I loved my blogging time the best. For some reason it really appealed to me, allowed for me to share all my thoughts and then play large with images, games and postings from all sorts of souces. Most of all I kept it real, even if that reality strayed off course of the lesson plan.

Once we got past the mandatory programming of the course the blog took off and became a vehicle of my own devising. It was my bully pulpit, my open diary, my house party of thoughts, ideas, dreams and wishes. And, towards the end, a place where I shared an awful lot of thoughts about you.

To the point where my good friend the Snake Lady called me on it. It was then that I shifted over to this place, began to empty out the satchel, used each piece in the bag to tell a story with. I never thought that it would cause me so much grief, that one stray missent post would get me cooked with that old draconian system of mine. But in the end that was okay. I found out the hard way who my friends were and where they dwelled. I went, frankly, crazy, that summer, waiting to find out what sort of punishment these tired old letters from heart would yield.

Well, they turned into a sort of early retirement, a layoff, a summary court martial, what have you. I went into fall optimistic that my chances for gainful employment were good. I started peppered the library world with resumes and then sat back and waited for the offers to come in. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think that my downfall would coincide with the greatest economic downturn since the Great Depression.

So, instead of getting depressed about it I gathered my friends about me, volunteered out in the community and drank a lot of wine, watched a lot of movies and cooked a lot really rich food. It was a merry old time, sometimes bordering on desparation but then that's what road trips were good for. I renewed my relationship with my kids, got to know Boise a bit better and without knowing it began to map out my future here in the Treasure Valley.

It took almost a year and a half but I landed a job here in the Boise proper. I am happy for the challenges that these posts brought into my life, that you helped bring into my life. I think of that one note you sent me a long time ago, asking me to brave like you. At the time I couldn't even imagine it. I tried several variations on the theme of it and now I think I have discovered my own form of grace.

I may not be living with my kids but I am there with them. I may not have you in my life but you color it daily. I may not have landed exactly where I thought I was going to land but in the end I am exactly where I needed to be. When our adventure began almost six years ago Boise was a place where I went to attend a library conference, a region where my in-laws bought a mess of property to rent out and retire with. In the end it was the place where TEO went with the kids on a supposed vacation and in the end enrolled them here in school, instead, just to "try it out".

Now Boise is a place that I am trying out, that, after years of making the drive over the Blues to keep my heart and mind intact, I can now call home. I will be making that drive again to the Puget Sound here in a couple weeks, this time to empty out a basement, to see old friends, to trip a bit of the light fantastic around my old town. But this time, when the car is full and my sights are set on the east, I will be heading home. I am more than happy about it.

This place, these words to you, were once the source of my downfall. But like the phoenix rising, I have risen out of the ashes of doubt, sadness and a hurtful sort of pride. These words, this place, now finds me soaring and I am happy. Happy to have met you, loved you and to left that place where your ghost still dwells.

Peace, my dear M.

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

27th of always

March here in the Treasure Valley goes back and forth from a sort of delayed winter to a hyper spring to a peek and taste of summer then back again, all within the span of an hour or a day. Lately we have been treated to early morning frosts, grauple in the afternoon and deep golden sunshine around sunset, all the while frolicking about in the sublime warmth and cool sweetness of a sort of dream like early spring that I haven't ever really experienced anywhere else.

My childhood springs went on forever and those Washington springs, while delicate and blessed with tulips and cherry blossoms, always seemed to be a softer extention of winter, a winter that seemed to roll right up the edge of summer, usually until the 4th of July. I can see that the seasons will be different here and I am glad.

Yesterday seemed to be a taste of what I can expect here, or least ways, what I can hope for, for the rest of spring this year. I know that we parted ages ago but whenever the 27th hits I always pay attention and see if anything might come out of the blue, either from you or the merry gods that seem to rule my life these days. I think that those cherubic faced immortals were smiling down on me yesterday as they gave a chance to play with a good new friend and helped expand my knowledge of this new city the I love so much.

The 27th was always our day, regardless if we were together or apart. Somehow we felt that it was the basis of some sort of national, not personal, holiday, as we always turned it into a reason to be out and about ourselves. It was our unofficial official CalCoPo Forest to the Sea bookclub day, it was our super secret designated field trip day, it was our reason to be in the kitchen making whatevers or to be out in the living room knocking out some acey ducey or some other laugh inducing parlor game. These days I mark the day in my heart and move on, light a sort of mental candle to the day, to the 27th of August 2005, and then find something else to do with my time.

Yesterday I did just that.

Yesterday I hung out with a fellow California expat, a mountain gal, a forest service use to be, a modern day federal number cruncher. She is my newest pal, yet another one from another place, here in a place that is worthy of our time, a time filled with exploration and discovery. Yesterday was a long walk along the Greenbelt with a bouncy Border Collie in tow. Yesterday was a bowl of pho in a cool little Vietnamese joint with no bookstores in sight, a quick trip to the market for pasta makings and other things.

Yesterday was filled with plenty of conversation, music and a bit too much wine and until I filled in a major gap of a papasan chair late in the day on the sunporch, goblet in hand, candles burning, it was mostly an anniversary day that was spent without you in mind. But as always you turn up, and for a moment it was all about you. But, as these things go, just like that day of ours came and went, our happy memory took a stroll and I, well, I went on with my evening, cat in lap, movies unspooling before me and cooking assignments put off for another day, another time. It was good enough for me that I shared my day with someone who finds me enchanting or at least interesting. A good thing all the way around.

So the 27th moved along and I have to wonder if you marked it at all, if the moment, which used to be such a big deal for the two of us, was even on your radar for a moment. For me it always shines, even after all else about us has tarnished and faded away. The 27th was and will always be our day. You may have an anniversary over there once a year to mark your sacred event, but here, in this new place and in this old heart, we continue to be celebrated once a month every month, and sometimes, if the sun and moon and the stars are alligned just so, every time my heart beats..

The 27th of always, indeed.

Love always

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

Tatami mats

"Ah, Japan..."

It was one of the first letters you shared with me, when we were both still plugged into the KRL system. I have no idea what it was there between us that allowed for that first series of letters to continue there on company email. I have to think it was our time before the moon, the tasting of raspberry pops, the wandering through the berry thickets, that time shared working on your stories going round and round the J high track that did it, that allowed for those first peeks into your world, at first camera shutter fast, then longer, lenghtier glimpses into your thoroughly land locked, culture bound life.

In a lot of ways our worlds were both similar at the time, both dictated by the whims of family, activities and church. Both of us led fairly insular island like lives, sheltered away like those ancient Japanese before the arrival of Perry. We had our daily routines mapped out and programmed. Our lives were scheduled, our days planned, our psyches wrapped up tight. But maybe we weren't as tightly wrapped as we thought. After that sit before the rising moon we came apart like a kimono obi, unraveled the more we shared, and then, in the course of a conversation or two, realized that we both shared a love of all things Japanese, a love for the land, a common taste for the food. Somehow we took that mutual affection for a far away land as a chance to form yet another bridgehead and turned our separate but mutually insightful times in Japan into one of the nicest series of letters you ever shared with me.

Funny to think that those letters, the only ones that managed to survive the big purge of 9/27, has the ones that helped to hand me my head in a handbasket. Ah, the seemingly innocent things we retain, the swords that we lay down on that cut both ways!

But, no matter, that's all long gone and life is being lived in a new and better place. What mattered then and what matters now is that connection we both have to Japan. I think of my time there in the military and long for a return to that lovely land as a civilian, to see those wonderful people again without the stigma of US NAVY attached to my being. Somehow I always thought that Tokyo, even more than Oaxaca or Paris, as the city I would have loved to have expereinced with you overseas. Springtime, with cherry blossums falling from the trees. The mad hustling along the streets of the Rupongi district. The sun setting on the slopes of Fugi. The Buddha statues in Kamakura. Kabuki in Kyoto. It was there for awhile, and for a bit it wasn't hard to imagine it happening.

Japan was the game changer for me, a fundamental shift of my conciousness occured there when I was a lad and a big part of my heart lingers there to this day.

So, when I read the papers, skim the newslinks online, listen to NPR, all I hear is sorrow attached to those horrific tales of earthquak, tsunami and nuclear meltdown that Japan has suffered through this last week. I think of that beloved land and all I can feel is a deep and profound sadness.

But even more than that I am reminded that life is short, sweet, yea, even bittersweet. Through photographs, videos and first hand accounts I can see very plainly and graphically how all those things we hold dear can be wisked away in an instant. Now is the time to let those folks who matter to us how much we care, how important they are to us, how our lives have been made so much better, that life has been made oh that much sweeter for their being in it.

It is more than tatami mats, Sumo wrestlers, New Years nights in the Akihabra district, functional subways or moonlight on Tokyo Bay that we missed or wish we could experience again. It was a time and a place that struck a mutual chord in both of us, a land that was our common touchstone, a special place in our hearts and lives that has been hurt and has been bled out that makes this note, sent to you from a far, from a place far back in our personal space and time, important.

Life is short, M. Know that you matter to me, still. Nothing on earth can ever change that.

Be safe, happy, all that,

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

View from the cockpit

The rain is hitting hard and heavy. There has been the threat of rain all day, but it wasn't Puget Sound heavy skies but one large, alien spacecraft looking kind of cloud, lingering, foreboding, hovering locally, keeping all of us guessing as to when it would break. Well, the wind came up, the trees starting blowing sideways and like a good cloudburst will do, it let loose, cancelling the boy's lacross practice for the day and causing a run on our meager supply of grocery bags. No wet books, please.

I sit at the back of the bus, bus being apt for the Thomas product, bus not so much in bench seats but we have the aisle up the middle. No students on board for the moment, as the wind is blowing even sober minded drivers on down the road and away from us. No, we have a mobile library here, stocked with primarily best sellers, childrens picture books, a handful of large type, a smidgeon of audio and a movie collection that is the rival of any Netflix line up in the land. We hear how wonderful our movie collection is all the time. Well, we pad it now with a few more classics and foreign but that is a better take on our mission: to spread the word about all that good and great to see, read and hear, not just what Oprah or the Idaho Statesman has previewed that week.

The back of the bookmobile is my territory. I sort of made it happen by default. I like the way I can spread out back here, lay my backpack, lunch bag and jacket out and know that no one will care about the mess. Sure, it's a public space but we have no coat closet, rest room, break area or locker arrangement. Folks know to look for me in the back, my colleague J up front.

From the back I can look out over snowfields, parking lots and playgrounds. I can see class loads of children arriving, give a holler when car loads of patrons pull up. From my seat I can perform crowd control during those heavy after school sessions, keep an eye on the lay of land when the shiftless arrive, do an inventory in my head of what we need and when we need it and then, when things get slow, send my colleague along to branch to fetch it.

The colors are contemporary library hues of blond wood and rugged tan/turquoise/burgundy indoor/outdoor carpeting. We keep the soundsystem going most of the time, lower when J is a the helm, a bit louder when I am on my own. Jazz, world beat, classical, a bit of Windham Hill. Good background sounds, no lyrics, mostly pink noise and generally the same album throughout the day. Sometimes that's a good thing, that plain wrap anonymous sound but then again with some jazz albums you gain new insight the more you listen. And listen we do even if it's a volume that's a bit lower than I'd like.

The winter is passing and spring is on the horizon. As the days get longer and warmer we tend to burn the heater less and the lights less frequently. It's been a good post so far, quiet some days, rambunctious and rowdy on others. We are piloting a shut-in program in one retirement home and hope to expand that service to other places soon. I am hoping to start a new movie appreciation group back at the branch and have asked the collection development person to look into licensing real soon.

And while it's not quite what I envisioned I find that it's a sweet little good job. Good staff, great leadership, a solid bus to do my good work out of. And that, my dear, is almost more than I can ask for on some days.

So I stare out the window at traffic making it's way into town, most keeping a blind eye to me, doing their best to make the signals, everyone thinking of home, replenishment, libations. I know that will be my story soon.

The cockpit at the back of the bus is now a home away from home. One more home of many that I have made here in the Treasure Valley. It's not the Port Orchard branch but then again Port Orchard is no longer my home, either. One more place to say I hung my hat.

Now that's a thought..a hat rack!

Thoughts fly your way, Professora.

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

Shelter from the storm

It's funny to think that dreams, sleep, that one safe harbor, that sweet place where those precious minutes spent away from the mundane, from daily realities of work, bills, sick kids, sketchy cats, all that, would end up being a way station to you, to your all too familiar face, to your phantom touch and to that the distant life where you live, deep into and over the mountain ranges that separate us.

I didn't really think to find you there in that harbor of dreams so early this morning but there you were. Maybe it was the Klimnt print of the lovers hanging in the vanity room that paid your passage to that late night voyage. I never know for certain what will trigger those visitations let alone those random daytime waking dreams of you I regularly see, those oh so brief flashes of light, those quick guerilla strikes against my open and curious about you heart, but there they are.

Never mind that life is busy, or, at the very least, caught up in wild and unbridled curiosity. I am like a restless and roaming cat here in Boise, wandering from place to place, sampling this, trying out that, taking in new adventures and adding more new ones to my pile every day. I have this sneaky suspicion that I will be able to play here for years and not wear out this sand box, that I will constantly find new rocks to turn over, all the while finding those old rocks ever more interesting the more I get to know them and understand their value and their simple, exquisite joy.

To that end, in order to better explore this place, to fully appreciate it's play value I have already put two tennis racquets, two frisbees and a basketball in the boot of the car. I took my bike out of the shop and now have readied it for riding along the Greenbelt once the weather improves. I found and laid in a pair of stout boots and a nice hearty daypack in order to better take on the local hills later on this spring. I haven't yet made my way back to our old hometown yet but when I do I will be grabbing camping gear and additional bikes. I look forward to friends coming by, to bike rides along the trail, to walks near and far, all to be better able to know and appreciate this new found love of mine.

Is it too strange to say that I love a town? To be mad about a city? I know how I am, how I can be about new things but baby this place is hard core underneath my skin now and I never want the thrill to end. It has everthing I could ever want..crisp sunny days and brown and green speckled hills, a wide variety of wonderous second hands and delightfully seedy dive bars, magnificent tree laden streets and street after street of stately old homes, endless vistas and long country roads and when the skies are clear, mind blowing sunsets. After living in such a small and quaint burg for so long this medium sized city seems to me to be a metropolis, with numerous library systems, a university, outdoor activties, cultural events, enormous well maintained parks, endless new eateries to try out and always something grand and interesting to see, visit, explore off over the horizon.

It has damn near everything a man could want, M. The kids are close by, my new old place is quaint, the rent cheap and now that I have a nice selection of small but essential recreational toys bought and paid for, entertainment of the outdoor kind should be inexpensive and close at hand. Making friends, well, I do that more slowly than before but that's alright, too, as those friends and acquaintances introduce me to or tell me about places I need to see, to go to, to try out, in order to be a better, more informed and well rounded citizen of Boise. I am happy for all that, too. Simple, easy, no heart ache or heartbreak.

I stay busy running the kids to and fro school and various activities. Dance recitals are coming up as are lacross games. Soccer is looming as is confirmatio, prom and graduation for my oldest. Life is settling in and it's good here, yet, when I go to sleep and come out on the the other end with thoughts and visions of you so blatantly unsettling I have to wonder why I wandered so far away from the land of sea and forest I so openly and fervently loved once upon a time.

And then, once I settle down and look over my thoughts clearly, I know why.

It's all for the good of the order, in order for us to live better lives. Sure, MyLife let me know this morning that you were out there and that I could see your photo for a price. Were you looking for me on that site as well, I have to wonder? The internet brings you and yours close at hand so I can stay connected without too much of a fuss. But baby, let me tell you, all it takes is a stray Colorado license plate and here you are in the forefront of my mind all over again. Ford Focuses are everywhere, faces with your shape are common and then there are those songs, the ones you introduced me to long ago, blaring out of every store speaker.

It's a part of the grand master plan to keep you there on the edge of my vision plane, to have you visit periodially the new landscape of my heart. I am happy and pleased when you drop in because I know that you'll never linger for long. You are a good, ney, excellent guest. Your baggage is always packed, the room in my heart that you occupy always squared away. Come and sit whenever you please as you know that you are always welcome. And know that when you leave that you're always welcome back anytime, to share in the all joy that I am burgeoing with these days. It's a glorious time and it's all good and I am more than happy to share.

Yes, come take safe harbor in my dreams, my old friend, my one true love. It was good then and it's all good now. Welcome now and always and please weight anchor whenever you wish.

In the meantime, let's go play in that fieldsof dreams, shall we, Professora? Goodness gracious, yes! See you there!

Sweet dreams,

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

Oh, and as for that Winslow Homer Storm painting up above? I see every day as it hangs on the wall across from my bed...

Endless, relentless, gladhearted

I wake, stretch, say good morning to you and realize every day that, baby, we're not in Port Orchard anymore.

A new town, a new place, new faces, new streets, new everything it seems at times. I asked for renewal, reinvention in my old stomping grounds a year or so ago and what I got was a sort of stranger in a strange land experience instead. Years ago my mom tried to throw a bit of home spun philosophy my way, something to the effect of wherever you go there you are. She mentioned baggage, of taking yourself along for the ride, but somehow, while the exact words have since took flight the sentiment remains. Here I am and for all intents and purposes I am home.

Home is now here in Boise and life, sweet life, has resumed and has made a sort of pact with me and my previous existance. Life here has allowed for a sort of truce with the past. All those things I held dear...the house, my belongings, my view, all the old things and people that anchored me so firmly to the world that I knew there in the Kitsap...is now a sort of kryptonite zone. I have put off taking two trips over the past three months and still have to wonder when I'll make that drive. I don't need any of the thingsI have packed away in storage, the rent from the houses gets sent to me promptly, I have plenty of things to do here in the Treasure Valley, my kids are within hailing distance at long last and I am cautiously, casually, easily making new acquaintances and friends. Romance I will hold off on for now, plenty of time for that later on.

I do like what I see here and think, in my heart of high desert lovin' hearts, that I will stay, not just a while, but for as many years as this place truly suits me. I have a sweetheart of an apartment in the North End of town. I live within walking minutes of a health food co-op, my parish cathedral, a couple of historic districts, the state capital, a major university, a thriving downtown, a very nice art house, a bevy of incredible hiking trails, a lot of cool old homes, a ton of charm, grand old trees and a lot of very nice people. I work for a decent library system, make a salary that pays the rent and I will, within a few days, finally take that plunge and get an Idaho drivers licence. I truly mean to stay and to make this not only my official residence but my home as well.

All the things I loved about my old home town I can do and find here. Great second hands, a track or two to walk, lots of great Mexican food, wonderful places to shop, a great city library and magnificent views. I am six hours from Portland, which is three hours or so further than I was before but I am also within five hours of an In-N-Out burger joint (all I have to do is make my way to Utah!) I think that when I feared selling my home last spring I forgot that I wasn't really leaving anything behind, that everything that I loved and appreciated there was really out there all along. I just had to be open to it. I can finally say that I am, and for that I am thankful.

Face it, the thing I was most reluctant to leave behind were my old dreams. Dreams die hard, buddy, but eventually you find your way back to that sweet dream state that allowed you to thrive and dream happily in the first place. This a place that I can see right now is filled to the brim with bright and happy new dreams, healthy ones, energetic ones. Where they plan on leading me I cannot tell from here but it should be someplace that even the old M and W would appreciate.

So my kids are here, a land of sunshine is here and a wonderful sense of adventure is here as well. I am not dating, per se, but doing coffee and taking walks and meeting folks, something to help the healing process along, something to make this place one that is peopled with real life, living and breathing human beings, not ghosts. Everywhere I went, everyone I met in the Kitsap was a living reminder of a sad and sometimes bitter past. Here the sun is shining and I am master of a new prairie schooner, making trails into unchartered territory.

You, my love, are there, then, living a life that you chose, and me, well, I rode off into an uncertain sunrise and, after a hard stumble, landed on my feet. I think you would be both happy and proud to see where and how I landed. I know that I am.

More stories later on, my dear, as life continues to unfold.

Love always,

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

Red, pink construction paper...

and a fistful of doilies, too. Not quite a card or the sentimental letter you may have wished for, but a very happy and heartfelt St Valentines day to you...