Tuesday before Thanksgiving

Tuesday morning. Awake. Jet lagged and way too early, 4:30AM. I reach for my lover, she's not there nor will she be. I get up to search for some electronic sign that it didn't happen like this but I know already, have accepted it already. 10 years ago I would be doubled over in pain/regret/anger - now I sit hunched over a plastic LCD screen trying to warm my naked body by keeping the exposed parts in contact, lifting my feet off of the cold slate floor and search for a sign of her presence. She's there as an 'away' dot so I know this means she is home with her machine asleep, having made a decision for distance over mad love. She's right, I think to myself. "You're right" I say audibly to God. God is silent. Still early, several hours prior, the phone rings - it's the boys in Rochester. My heart sinks and jumps and we talk about the bug house, about escape, about love, acceptance, reality and ultimate experience. "I'm finally growing up" Jeffrey says. "I'll be 59 in two months and I finally feel like I'm growing up." Jeffrey, who but several months ago choked me out with cigar smoke from across our mutually soiled states. We're now brothers - closer than brothers. I can hear his chemical state - opium or its derivatives. We talk and stand supportive now. He wants love so badly he'd buy it like a mail order bride - stuck on the dream that a beautiful young woman is waiting for him, even if to fake it, from my new home. I didn't have the heart to tell him this would not be happening, that my new home would not provide this dream. It didn't matter, I spoke with him as if it would.
The next call came from Lord Byron who was not in her vehicle heading towards Jersey rather she remained blissful in her state of niceness, in Rochester, 5 hours away. It was "kind" to give a call so she was following her kindness. We exchanged pleasantries not fighting it then parted ways, again. "Be well Lord Byron" I told her but she wouldn't get what that meant. Instead she would make comments about the dog and other histories in a way that would seem to me almost silly in its utter disregard for the situation. But strong I suppose in that self-regarding inner-strength sort of way. "Poor thing" I think and roll over clutching my belly from want and desire. What next? Silence. I really had no earthly idea. "Get up, walk," says the Lord. I pace instead.

here. now.

I haven't told a story in quite a while. This is because observing the self, my self, has become tedious, repetitious, unfruitful, grainy and ultimately cold. Sad. But not sad in the romantic sad man this is your life in all its beautiful stress sort of a way but simply short sighted. This is what is. So now today listening to the gunfire from the Bayram celebrations and inhaling the smoke from the wood burning stove, alone in my room above the cafeteria, out on the edge of this filthy city I thought to perhaps again try to tell a story. The story has a point but will often not lead to redemption. No victory at death here. Movement for certain but very little else, loneliness, and a large table at times to join. You are invited, you always have been, though through this you see that your table is just as big with less stuff and less stress. Your table has stronger legs and silverware. I will wait and eventually, in one way or other, you will invite me to it as a guest. At first you will be thinking as a guest of some honor though later thinking best to simply offer a place because perhaps something I have written or spoken or projected or buried years ago for you. I will be grateful to sit with you. I will be grateful to be together. This will likely be the way it will go and I will probably let on at some point just how long I have been waiting for this and for you to invite me.

A new project has started. Photographing the landscape with the big camera. A shift to focus on others, away from self and its painful traps. Stay tuned...