Who will read this? Me? Doubtful! The urge to write is strong. The drive to tell the story as a way of appreciation, a way of savoring the bright white contrails of a plane, heading east in pure blue – stealing time from the Earth rolling slowly in the same direction – and now, far past the mountain peak, like just the disappearing tail of a cloud. 

Sure, I can sit and look, breathe it all in, the desert hills washed in shrubs, succulents and spiny life. The mountains like teeth, the lower jaw of a prehistoric giant. But pre to whose history? Not mine.

For my passage is so brief and fleeting, like the rare, delicate wind blown yellow, butterfly (moth?) tracing wavy changing trails through the bush. We say, it might as well have never happened. It was without enough consequence to mark.

Sure, I sit here in my camp chair on BLM land, “dispersed camping” it’s called. Boondocking. With my notebook and pen and a good lot of my worldly in my van. Mountain bike beside me like a loyal steed. iPhone 15 on a camp table. It’s just stuff having its own adventure as I pass through the possession phase.

Last week I sold a drum for $150 to a man from Ghana in a McDonald’s parking lot in Hutto Texas. I bought that drum at the market in Bamako in 1995. Hauled it back to Seattle on Air France, checked in its own duffel. Was it worth $150? In my history, it was a millionaire. Having resounded its deep bright voice across the country for 30 years. Drums keep time. I let it go.

#TFU25 #trumpsatanspawn

Here is how Trump thinks: USA has already bought Ukraine. They are a now a colony of USA. We will let Russia think we’re gonna share it, but no. And also, no, Trump (satans spawn) is not going to give up that energy and mineral money $ by allowing Ukraine to demand NATO membership. (If he was smart, he would demand Russia give up the nuclear power plants and the rivers. Oh, and pay for the US to rebuild and supply demining robots. ) But Donald Trump is nuts not smart. We all know that. He’s just dumb ass evil dressed in business. Like Putin. But remember, Putin is the guy in the fight with a knife who will use it.

Trump (ss) also believes nothing’ll ever touch him, and he can stay far enough way, or pass away before the real blow back hits the fan. And this is gonna blow back eventually. It always does. Always has, always will. It’s just, you know, probably not on him. His stupid sons, they’re gonna be drowning in the economic, environmental shitstorm fallout of this bonehead “deal”.

Because why would he (Donald Trump satan’s spawn) prefer business with Europe? They just wants us to buy crap from them and preferential prices on our made in America crap. (never mind that eu abide by the world trade organization, the rule of law and mostly secure, stable and transparent banking system and they don’t hack us much) but hey there’s an opportunity with Ukraine / Russia.

Russia’s basically a developing economy again. Fuck we can recolonize them with our consumer brands like Tesla. and the NFL. I can see a Trumpo Hotel in Odessa with a view of all the tankers and fucking pipelines moving that beautiful Russian crude. That rich profitable Russian crude oil and natural gas. Heck, there might even be a somber memorial for the victims of Mariupol and all the other war crimes. #tfu25 #trumpsatanspawn

Clint Eastwood from Gorillaz, is the anthem of this century Putin trump be damned.

Call me decadence but this multiculti cats out the bag. We are earthlings.

This is the century we monkies transcend this planet and save it. First we must transcend our nations, tribes and solid sense of self.

Think about it. When you show up to represent your school or town or country (or earth) you are so full. Joy. Identity. Purpose. Autonomy. Mastery. Love.

July was the cruelest month in 22. On the day after Independence Day, I was in a café when she finally called me back. It had been two days of silence. Though I assumed that she was coming home to me that day. But instead, her new man left a message on my phone saying tthat she did not like conflict and hey were going to Europe next week to get married and that he was sorry.

Fast-forward a few weeks and much drama and alcohol later… One night before bed scrolling through arts news in some publication, I caught a brief review of the latest work by Emily St. John Mandel. And knew right away I had possibly, finally, discovered a special writer. Someone to add to that shelf of favorites before I had even read a single line.

And tonight probably not even 25% of the way through Station 11, I felt so good that I wanted to stop and message her on Instagram immediately. And tell her all about how this was connecting with me in my life. And how brilliant the last couple of pages were, how poetic, thrilling, how much like film, painting, and amazing embrace…

So there Emily, you’ve touched me in the heart. We have fenced, you might say, touché!

Earlier this afternoon while working on a three letter spot in a crossword puzzle, I came across an intriguing clue: “The tongue of the mind…”, Cervantes.