She spoke to me before she left, “You’re a writer.” Well, I might as well write.   

     Sitting on the front porch of my new house. Surrounded by nature and life. I see green grass aplenty, white roses in bloom, palm trees, bougainvillea, peaks of ocean, and the California sky abound. It’s the golden hour in the Golden State. I’m drinking a beer, listening to music, and watching time go by. One thing I’ve noticed about Fire Mountain, aside from the constant breeze and slight dip in temperature, is the number of birds in the area. I would venture as far as to say this is a “birding” paradise. I myself like the little ones that dart about with the indigo plumage and turquoise shells they wear like crowns on their heads. There are so many different varieties I may have to buy a book to keep track. I could even make this my “big year,” if I were a birder. Irrespective of the fact that this year was the year I killed Susan’s husband. I shot him dead not with my gun, but with my thoughts. My mother was at his funeral today. Either his or somebody else’s. I don’t know. I didn’t ask. But I do know that they drop like flies in the desert. It’s where the wealthy elite of Southern California conceivably go to die. To Palm Springs. If you ever find your way out there, stop and listen for a moment. I bet you’ll hear a fresh siren ring out at least once every hour. On the hour. And let me tell you, it’s not for fires. For there’s not much to burn in the desert that isn’t already scorched. That place is like a constant inferno. Dante’s inferno in a paradise lost. I’m just waiting around to get the call one day that the most recent siren’s song was for my mother. I wonder who it’ll be on the other end of the line. If I had to guess, I’d say it would be her friend Wendy. “Wendy the good,” as I refer to her. I always liked Wendy. She was about the realest person in my mother’s orbit other than Bob. But Bob is long gone and dead, off to the tight fairways of another realm. And I don’t think Wendy is up for the task of taking on my mother as a full-time project to keep her on the straight and level. So off she drifts. Like a feather in the wind. What’s your favorite day of the week. Mine used to be Tuesday. Now it’s not. You know who else doesn’t care much for Tuesdays. That’d be Susan’s husband. For he doesn’t care for much of anything anymore.   

     “Sorry about your friend,” I texted my mother just now. “And that you’re in Moreno Valley.”

     Wink, wink. 

      Like smooth jazz aired on the box. The flower was dismembered by a wintery wind. Bearing in like thunder off the coast. Holding a trident in its hand. A colossus that bestrode the world. 

     But enough with all that weight. I’m moving forward towards the light. This is the only life I choose to live. One wherein I am in utter control of my own fate. Without the slightest inclination of fear. I’ve figured out the meaning of life, and I stand by my assessment … Happiness is a choice.   

     I haven’t written a love song in so long. I wonder if I still can. The red in the bougainvillea really pops from my kitchen window as the sun mercifully sets on a yesterday I wished I’d forgotten. While I scribbled too many poems in my head I knew I wouldn’t have the courage to share. Not for the sake of us, but for her.     

     When you have everything, you have everything to lose. We’ve been stealing ideas since the first idea was formed. How do you think we learn. Through observation and deference. Through imitation and ingenuity. When I spoke to my aging father earlier today—he’s seventy-eight—I told him that I may want to get back into coaching. “I was a good coach,” I told him. I bet you I still am. That was a funny interaction we had. I basically just rambled on and on for thirty-eight straight minutes about anything that popped into my head. Well, that’s not entirely true. Being that I was speaking to my father-the-narcissist, I made sure to only ramble on over subjects that he was willing to hear. Nonetheless, from my end, the objective of the conversation was additionally self-serving. I was doing anything not to write. Today was supposed to be an unscheduled day off. After I’d finished my most recent novel and then jumped directly into the work of healing myself after. Writing my way in and out of peril and through anything. I’ve stared that dragon in the face on enough previous occasions that when the time comes, I know how to right the ship. This is my safe space. This is my peace and love. From one work to the next. I know I’m intense. Like an intentional man. I’d like to be less so as I progress into the next stage of my life. Nah, bullshit. I’m going to ride this motherfucker until the wheels fall off and I stagger into my last dying breath. Full speed ahead. Like how Zevon told me to do it. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. 

     You’re either on the train or you’re off. 

     “Trust me,” I said to Sophia the other night after she got home from work, “If I feel safe, I’m going to be a better partner.” That’s just the way it is. I continued, “I’m a good man. I treat people well. But if I don’t feel safe. If I’m backed into a corner, I will come out of that motherfucker swinging.” 

     I liked it so much I called it “Swinging II.”

     Take two steps to your left. Take two steps back. The only way I step is forward. I looked out the window and saw a three-legged dog trundling obliquely down the street. I think that was the second three-legged dog I’ve seen this week. It used to be a rare occurrence to see such a sight. But it’s not anymore. One of these days they’re going to stand up and walk and talk. People used to mock and deride that ostensibly trite, infamous painting of the dogs seated around a table and playing poker. Mark my word, one day they will be. And we’ll be the ones following them around with little plastic bags. 

     If a person remains a child well into adulthood, who is pretending to raise and care for other children, one of whom they still let sleep in their bed as that specific child nears adulthood, what I said earlier of her and the way her entire family continues to treat her, that they empower her every whim, it’s no different from enablers and addicts, trust me, we can smell our own, which is furthermore the reason why I don’t believe a single word she says … If she really wanted to pick up the dolls from our garage, she would have come last week. But that little piggy went all the way home instead. 

     What I’m not going to allow myself is to dwell in the abyss of them. Any of them. Ever again. I know a monster when I see one. My advice to you: Run as fast as you can. 

     I can’t forget about the song I wrote the night it woke me at four in the morning. The one I titled, “I know.” I wish I didn’t know as much as I do. I wish I knew then what I still know now. Life sure would have been a whole lot easier. I think the thing is … I’ve always known more than what is good for me. And now that I know everything, I know that I know nothing at all. 

     Don’t sell the farm yet. That’s one thing I’ll know until the end. Not if you believe in the cause. I said earlier that I’ve figured out the meaning of life. And that’s it. Find what you love and do it until you either don’t love it anymore or you can’t. What other purpose is there. As long as it doesn’t harm but help. And there’s your moral ambiguity. Blurring lines and bending space on the time/space compendium. 

     I walked under gravity’s rainbow in search of a pot of gold I knew I wouldn’t find. But that didn’t stop me from looking.