On the road again… it feels like the road is the only place I’ve ever been. The mind plays tricks on you, or at least my mind plays tricks on me, and I forget that I’ve lived other places, done other things, and lived other lives. I forget. I get confused.
I’ll be sitting in my RV looking out the window, parked at some random rest stop along a long highway, or I’ll be parked on a parking lot, packed dirt for several acres, listening to the wind grind the desert floor… and I’ll get to believing I’ve never been anywhere else. That this here today is my life as it always has been. Nothing new. Nothing old. Nothing but this air we’re breathing, and time standing still.
Then I’ll intervene in my own daydreaming, forcing myself to ask myself and the emptiness in front of me this simple question that I’ve yet to be able to answer: What the hell is going on?
It’s a good life we live, for the most part, most of us, most of you reading this post. It’s good to take a moment every day to sit down, or stand up looking at yourself in the mirror if that’s your thing, it’s not really mine, but to just shut up for a second, and to take everything down and look at it all… smile at how lovely it all is…
This morning I found out that a friend of mine passed away yesterday, and I was sad. I still am. He was a good man, and he lived selflessly for his friends and his family, and especially for his daughter. He lived a hard life with a lot of struggle, and yet he was such a compassionate cool wonderful man. I was thinking about him a couple of weeks ago, telling myself it had been too long since I’d said hello, that when I’ll be back in Austin later this month, I would go and have a beer with him. That won’t be possible. When I do get back however, I’m going to have a couple of Miller High Life in his honor. He had bad taste in beer, and that was his only flaw. He was 52 years old. His name was Lester Kevern. Rest in peace, my friend.
This entry is dedicated to him. For the last 10+ years he’d been living in Austin, however before that he’d traveled quite a lot. He was a little bit of a saltimbanque in his younger days, long before I ever had the pleasure to meet him—such a lovely word, saltimbanque, it means “street entertainer” to a certain degree… but also one who travels and lives off his wits by entertaining others, and the crass translation of “street entertainer” simply doesn’t do it justice. And even if this memory of him isn’t entirely true, that’s how I like to imagine him: traveling around the world living in a trailer doing what it takes to make other people’s life better and laughing a lot. He loved life, was never a downer in good company, and worked his ass off with a smile to make life better for others…
Churning up the mountain
in The Rollin’ Chateau
the First Officer looked to the Captain
and warned him of a storm to come…
he hadn’t even swallowed his breath
that a million really angry
minuscule polar bears flying in the air
at incredible speed
smashed in the windshield
nonstop for several hours
bleeding out in icy strings of crystals
clear as could be
and cotton white all the same. The crew
took it as best they could
and kept on up and down the mountain
until the blue skies opened up
and new troubles lay ahead
but for now, the songs of peace were singing
a blue piece
something from somebody’s rusty trunk
about a love gone wrong
and another one gone right
and that someday the road will end.
Peace & Love