Spare me a little bit ...

I was really trying to read Edward Abbey's Journey Home, but unfortunately it's just a bit too much about actually returning home, which is what I thought I was doing, unfortunately, you never actually go back ... so instead I am listening to the Cowboy Junkies on the IPod at volume 11.

Things are returning to normal. What's normal? Four years ago I lived in a warehouse with concrete floors, more than a few dozen orchids, a crazy bird, a woman named Jane, and three somewhat feral cats, and a Pacific tree frog. It had no heat and a makeshift kitchen and a clawfoot tub right in the middle of the living room, which we fondly referred to as the observatory. ... Jane would be out, and I would have the volume on the stereo at nine with Juliana Hatfield taking the paint off the walls ... I could pretty much park my bikes anywhere. There was a 1+ mile hike to the bay directly out my door. That still seems pretty normal to me. My brother would have shown up with beer and a couple of friends, turned the stereo up, if he could have.

Two years ago I lived in the desert. The Sonoran desert. 15 minutes from the most stunning of wilderness. Scorpions, coyotes, bobcats, javelina, tortoise and tarantula, not to mention snakes. You never really had to go anywhere to find them -- they would come and visit you -- no waiting. Stereo on and up. My brother would have been there to check out the sights and bag a few peaks with his dog, who would chew up the couch. He would have complained about the heat and made more Margaritas. The desert would have begged us to hike and ride. I left that virile sun to return home.

I made a journey home like this once before. A journey back to the place I was born. Where I grew up. I went back home after grad school, after I graduated in the desert, after I did what no other person in my family has ever done. I went back. Nothing was as I remembered it. I grew in a sleepy burb ... which grew up into a freeway coated metropolis.

So I have done it again. Gone forward into something that looks like the past, to find out that it isn't there. It's just not; the past is not here. I am miles from my home.

If I could just reach the crest of that hill
this whole day will tumble and out the night will spill
The sky is still as a spinning top,
shooting stars drop like burning words from above
If I could just connect all these dots,
the truth would tumble like a cynic vexed by love

I am many miles from my home. In the place I grew up there was my brother. "I was Walking After Midnight, Searching for You." He was there, always there. He would show up on Saturday morning with two tickets to The Day on the Green. Stop in on Thursday night looking for me to go see the Taming of the Shrew with him. Pick me up on Friday night for a trip fishing to the Eel River, or whatever. It was always something -- and he was always late, but it was often good. He was always a good place for a party to start. He was smart -- brilliant -- and a disaster. My father used to say he could "snatch defeat from the jaws of victory." I travelled across the country with him, my brother. He always said that it was great to be alive. He said that, my brother. Then he killed himself. He killed himself on Christmas Day 20 years ago. Happy fucking anniversary.

On the Ipod is 'Misguided Angel.' Brother, you speak to me of passion, You said never settle for nothing less ... There comes a time when you live to break away. Baby there are things that we cling to all our life. ... Misguided Angel hanging over me. Hard like a Gabriel, pure white as ivory, soul like a lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead.

When I was writing the introduction to my thesis I talked about my brother. Early in my life he inspired me to want to be a Painter, an Artist. When I was about 5 he painted a painting of hot air ballons ... and I decided to be like him -- to be an Artist. I talked about his inspiring me. My whole life changed that day. It's too bad he was never here to see what he had done. When I was in Pullman Washington -- he would have been there. To party! -- and to cheer me on. He would have shown up unannounced with his Pentax, and say I was in the area ... We would have smoked some hash and ...

JUST WANT TO SEE
(Michael Timmins)

I don't want to be no patch on no quilt
(I just want to see...)
Tear-stained stitching linking memories to guilt
(I just want to see...)
I don't want to be no hair on no wall
(I just want to see...)
Blood-stained note saying fuck you all
(I just want to see what kills me)

Tommy, are you ready we better head to town
J.D.'s box is waiting to be lowered down
and you know how he hates to be kept waiting 'round

I don't want to be no chalk line drawing
(I just want to see...)
Toe-tagged question mark, until identifying
(I just want to see...)
I don't want to fuse with no economy seat
(I just want to see...)
fuel some fireball at 30,000 feet
(I just want to see what kills me)

Tommy, did you catch his face
before they closed the lid?
I swear I saw him wink once and flash me that old grin
Oh, you know, that would be just like him

I don't want to face no hollow-eyed ending
(I just want to see...)
Loved ones buried, empty days of waiting
(I just want to see what kills me)

Tommy, darling, come to bed
we'll try and sleep away this sadness
These memories, too, are bound to die
so our dreams will have to serve us
Tomorrow may be the day that our love betrays us

Do you think it's too late to volunteer to work on the suicide hotline on Christmas morning?