Montana. In my experience, boats in the water are always sinking and my RV in the rain is always leaking. Such is the case even now, I mean, I ain’t sure about boats because I’m not on one, but my little Toyota Dolphin is only yards away–and she’s most definitely leaking. I’m resigned to this inalienable truth about my rig. I do complain some, but I understand that complaints are barking dogs: they might have purpose, but mostly they are just annoying. So instead, I do what I can to stem the tide. I patch and paint and screw and then, when all else fails, I make coffee.
Two magpies are working the sidewalk, they are peeking under car fenders and pecking into cracks in the pavement. They are together indelibly and tangibly and wanderingly in this world and I wonder of their night last night. I picture the hedgerow where they slept and shifted one foot to the other sometimes head to tail and sometimes neck to neck trilling and softly speaking that secret language of corvids that could and probably does include thoughts and dreams beyond the grasp of human understanding. They are black and white and some color that is something green or purple when the light shines just right across their tails. And their tails are dragging in the rain turned snow. And there is a trail of two but it’s fading fast and just like Salinger’s Teddy, with the orange peels sinking and sinking and disappearing into the sea, I am perhaps the only observer of a thing that will happen once and once alone in the lovely, splashing soup of time.
I wait for these things. Not to prove my importance, but to ensure myself that I am here. I know what I am: a heart, some bones, skin and hair, blood, water and a subtle, slippery soul. I am put together by the whatever-else and I am a breathing, dreaming, running, coughing, crying, shitting, dancing, thinking, losing, hiding, scratching, sky-gazing, bird-watching, loving, two-legged walker.
Every now and then, when I’m left to myself, I will think too much and feel the darker side begin to creep on me. It’s in these moments when I look for something to pull me back. Sometimes it’s a book, sometimes a song. Last night it was a TV show. It was Louis C.K. in his show Loui. I’ve watched it before and I think he’s interesting. I think most of those funny folks are really sad on the inside. I see them bending their sorrows into humorous arrows and firing them off in all directions. I laid there and laughed and studied Loui with the freckled skin and the red hair and listened to him process the world as he sees it. He is both amazing and heavy like a stone. There is a reason that laughter produces tears. I hope you’re ok, Loui.
When I was a kid I thought a lot about dying. I thought about it mostly at night. Sometimes I called out for my Mom. She would show up at my bunk and explain without lying to me that it would be ok. She would say we all were going to die, that all things that live must eventually die. There is something comforting about everyone having to die. We are born in need. From the moment we take our first breath, we begin to need. I reckon dying is our chance to give back. We will make a damn good mulch.
There are groves and meadows where the grasshopper mice are hunting and howling under tiny sliver moons. The mountains are marching and migrating by the stars across the millennia with infinity mapped out before and behind. Wind fills the hollows, worries the leaves. And storms push the waves and cause shearwaters to boil and streak down to feed with the sharks. Thunder is pounding like a drum on the deep and down and down, past all of the sound are lumbering mysteries that slip to and fro through the caverns and forests and ranges of our dreams.
We are humans. We should be here more.