18 July 2010

i've decided it will be some wine

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I think I might want to write something here pretty soon. It feels like it. So if yer looking on the feed, you might wanna check back later... or not....


Beside having the food poisoning of the apocalypse for my first few days back home... home home... not where I live anymore... I was forced by duty to my very elderly former landlord to go out to the property upon which my little piece of bliss can still be found... amid the rubble of a drunken slob and the pot gardens of a wayward grandchild... and a piece of shit new "cabin/mansion" for which the fuckers dropped a bunch of gorgeous redwoods and paved over the most flourishing trillium bed in the whole county. It's too long a story, a family as dysfunctional as mine for absolute sure, but the heartache of looking at that paradise in bad decline is unspeakable.

I knew it would be.

People are such pigs. I know they are transcendentally beautiful too, but I'm one of the only ones who knows that, and so pig, pig, pig, pig, pig is waaaaaay too often all in evidence. I think of the wood ducks I'm certain have fled. I think of the mountain lion who has had to busy himself a little further afield. The fraidy-cat bear who is probably pouting off some three miles away where there are at least some fruit trees and berries growing in from the last way too heavy "select cut" on the Hawthorne timberlands. Some scumbuckets who don't want to feed their horses have moved them into the pasture where the bobcat sooo patiently waited for the gophers. Who knows if the heron still perches on the snag while waiting for things to settle down enough to go back to fishing in my pond or gophering with the bobcat. Paradise besmirched.

And a sociopath heir who moved her mother right out of her own house, trying to stake out her primacy on the property the whole family owns. She doesn't know it yet, but she has just forced the sale of her dreams, of all our dreams, of all our hearts' home.

Big deal. The whole Gulf of Mexico is a bowl of toxic sludge.

What's the diff how many degrees we die by? We die. Nothing remains.

At the other end of that wreckage, at the start of my old two-mile driveway, sits the carefully manicured home of my dear friends Lar and Richard. They're married. Husband and husband. This wine I'm drinking is a gift from Richard, whose favorite wine is Kenwood's Zinfandel. It's damn good. I usually only go for cabernet. And this is pretty young, but tastes fantastic after it's had enough breathing time. I didn't get to hug him very hard because his back is out, but I squeezed Lar until I'm sure he nearly passed out. Lar and I used to meet in the woods for little picnics and looooong talks, sitting on a stump, his dogs tap dancing to go off after something, until the sun was very low on the other side of the trees almost plopped into the Pacific.

I have been agonizing about all the dying trees out here. Scaring me. Scaring me. Scaring me. Hurting my heart. But at least I realized this afternoon it's all the fir and not the redwood. When yer vision isn't so great and they're all mixed-in in so many places, it's hard to tell them apart. This is huge, but thank the buddhas of the ten directions it's not the redwoods.

I don't want to see that. I don't think I can stand seeing that.

It might've been the thinking I was seeing that that nearly killed me.


What if it was only my dying heart's home?


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