Summer is here. Nineties and bumping a hundred in the afternoons are just another Texas summer flexing its muscles for the hard, hot run to fall. I left the air off in la casa pequeña con ruedas. A couple of hours on the porch reding and playing Scrabble gave it time to come from 97 inside to a tolerable 75. Quiet on the river and no breeze. RFW & DW in for the night before we arrived. A nice quiet night.
This morning we took it easy. Breakfast at Joe's with RFW. He was in rare form and on his way to Dallas to check on TW. Tomorrow he is trading mowers , picking up 4wheelers, and taking care of broken toys in general. I'm off to a funerla in Houston. I made the decision to fly down early tomroow a.m. and fly back as soon as the funeral is over. I have to be in SA Monday morning at 7 and don't want to spend my entire weekend driving.

I thought I was racing a mourning dove this morning as we traveled Soda Springs Road between a couple of peanut fields in the Littlefield bend of the Brazos River. We were running 40 mph and the dove paced us for a while on our right and then on our left. It seemed so effortless. A wingbeat or two every second, no evidence of strain, no apparent huffing and puffing. It occurred to me later as I pondered the event, relishing the power and grace of the tiny bird. One "birdpower" running on a few seeds and bugs effortlessly keeping pace with me in my 200 "horsepower" Suburban gulping gasoline at 20 mpg. The Grand Design puts our feeble efforts to shame in terms of efficiency, complexity and beauty. An humbling, but invigorating moment. All we need to do is accept the absolute power, permanence and grace. All the tools we need for a happy, fruitful, successful life were a gift that came with a promise that was confirmed with a sacrifice. I needed that moment this morning. Meditating on that moment can bring an acceptance and can banish worry. It is so obvious now that there is a plan, that the plan is much larger than us, that it is literally beyond our mortal comprehension and that it is incumbent that we accept it. It does not preclude our will, but simply predates it. It is our decision to accept or deny it, but we do not have the power to change it. For me, it is a relief. I know that all I am required to do is discern His will and the rest, well, not to worry.

We learned of the inevitabilities associated with RFW's disease last night. Hope has been relegated to the possibility of being elected to enter a program with a 10% 'success' rate. Success being defined as 'slowing the progress of the disease.' The chore I face is determining His will in this. What is it that he is teaching us, what is it that His plan requires of us? An acceptance of mortality, and a focusing on the promise of immortality? Is this a preparation for accepting our own mortality? I've viewed it at times as a chance for me to redeem myself, to support RFW as I failed to support my father, to experience the departure of a loved one without 45 years of confusion, anger, defeat and failure as my foundation. These thoughts sent me searching for an insight from a couple of summers ago. Oddly enough some few months after writing this I accepted Christ as my Savior. Funny, I told (and still tell) people I wrestled with God for fifty years, until I finally let me win. I don't think it was fear that motivated me as much as exhaustion, just worn down from the growing realization of the infinitesimal control we exert over our lives. I think it was simply an acknowledgment of needing God's support and help and admitting fallibility.

MORTALITY
Suddenly, as if in a gust of cold, icy, breath-stealing wind, mortality entered my universe. Oddly, it came not as a threat, but as a fact, a simple, real, undeniable fact. It made me feel an urgency, like a need to urinate, physical, undeniable, elemental and eclipsing any conscious thoughts, or silly concepts of "self" control, or any illusion of any control for that matter. It felt like GOD had tapped me on the shoulder, not angry or spiteful, just a loving reminder, a word to the wise, and a clue for the clueless.

- - Summer 2001 - -

RFW & Debbie left for San Antonio at 5:00 a.m. this morning. I met him at Fishhook George's pen at 4:30 to wish them luck and I guess just to let him know someone is praying for him. He seemed resigned to going, but I really sensed desparation rather than hope. TW is doing much better. The treatment induced Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome has diminished and he is carrying on conversations and behaving more like himself. Another prayer target.

Back to the Brazos. This river quiets my soul. I am glad to be back, on its bank, en los brazos del Río de Brazos. I like that. I like knowing that the Brazos means the arms and that being here, in this bend in the Brazos River means that I am in the arms of the arms. No safer place, no more secure place, double enfolded. We picked a great weekend to be away from the River. A group of air boaters 80+ I'm told took to this stretch of the river this weekend and wrecked havoc, aurally, and otherwise. Upon arrival at mi casa diminuta al lado del río I saw that EK and friend had arrived and parked their Wanderlodge by fishhook George’s pen. EK's current friend was, well, uh, rough. Apparently deaf, since she shouted constantly, blessed with that Lauren Hutten look, you know, a gap between her teeth, after that we shift to contrast rather than comparison. The quick version would be that her photo appears next to the word "hick" in the dictionary, and no additional info is needed. Max and I, tired from a drive in from Houston played a game of Scrabble and then lights out around 10pm. The Wanderlust, or lodge or whatever, remained however a hive of activity. EK, hick and their four dogs managed to find the only radio station you can get in the Littlefield bend of the Brazos, 95.9, COUNTRY, and well, I told you she was deaf...... LOUD, very LOUD. Add to that that the beer cooler was in an outside compartment, and that she apparently felt that the door needed a SLAM to assure it was properly closed, and that one or more of the dogs needed out every five minutes or so, and that said dog/s required LOUD calling, multiple LOUD calling, to coax them back into the trailer, and add to that her apparent new affection for RFW's dog F. George, and well, it was a while before the Corona twins passed out. Fortunately one regained consciousness long enough to kill the Country tunes. And..... since revenge is a meal best served cold, I waited until this morning to tune my satellite receiver to the "METAL" music channel to return the favor. I turned the TV up all the way as Chainsaw your Mother's Paranoia Metallically or something like that Crashed, banged, and screeched for the forty-five minutes it took us to get ready to leave. Unfortunately, heh, heh, heh, my trailer door developed a sudden latching deficiency and it took numerous slams to get it to latch. Unfortunately, heh, heh, heh, I was very forgetful and had to make several trips back to the trailer to get things I forgot as we loaded. Between slamming the trailer door and the new development in my Suburban that required slamming the doors several times to get them to latch, we departed. RFW called later this morning to apologize for the Wanderlodge invasion. I just chuckled and asked him if they slept okay. Apparently they got up fairly early and left. Heh, heh, heh!

And, thanks to the miracle of Celexa, I never got angry. This was just a reckoning, a balancing up if you will. No enmity, no animosity, no gritting teeth, stomping feet, just cool TCB (takin' care of bizness.)

A Houston weekend. A lawyer in the family. Cris graduated from the South Texas School of Law yesterday. I've told a couple of people that we've had murderers,thieves and con-men, but Cris is our first lawyer. Spending time with Cris, Chris, and Cris' family has been really nice. Some time to rest for Maxie and I.

Ahhhh, Yes, the dawning of a new day. Endless opportunity and a boundless bounty of beauty greet the newly arisen. Perhaps this day will seem smoother, more peanut buttery than the cottage cheese of yesterday. I'm becoming a real fan of smog. It makes for utterly incredible sunrises and sunsets. The hydro-carbonically altered disk of the sun was a glowing medallion of rosy fire this morning. It drew the mass of steel, rubber and plastic inexcorably along I-20. Occasional red & blue strobes would stem the flow to a lawful trickle for hundreds of yards at a time, but the sacrifices from the herd simply meant fewer predators and the stampede quickly resumed. One can only imagine the mayhem that this "holiday" weekend will create as the day wears on. All this hurry and after all, we know how it all turns out don't we. We rush past the now, what is actually the only reality, for the emphemeral tommorow that can melt away with an unforessen swerve or a moment of inattention. Since the only outcome we can reasonably anticipate at the end of our days is death, then why not slow down a little, tarry in the moment, and so, "I really must go, I'm late, I'm late For a very important date. No time to say 'Hello,' 'Goodbye,' I'm late, I'm late, I'm late."

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, Jeeeeezzzzz, the sounds of the brazos night
lost. Hidden. Truth simply isn't everything it's hyped up to be. Openness & sharing & trust sound much better in the theoretical. Maybe when the Celexa kicks in. misssed my meds this a.m. foolishly thought I'd wait 'til morning. Gimme that magic pill. make REALITY palatable. Please!

A new level of blog. Posting from my web-enabled phone.
Should inspiration strike, God's breath overtake me, the muse whisper the words of truth and beauty, finally, and clearly enough for my oh, so mortal ears, maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to "post&publish" before the crystal sphere of thought goes racing through my 'pachinko' brain and fall, lost forever, into that mush of memory no longer mineable at my middle-aged (I wish) point in life.,

Drifting awake
Dawn crept onto the Brazos this morning
No cymbal crash of sun
A sly light wasn't
and then was.
The green ribbon was satin
and no lacy wind ripples
disturbed the drape of cloud reflected there.
Even the fauna hushed their greeting
a tentativeness held them mute.
Sleep was banished with effort
the bonds of dreams unfinished fettered
the arising and a promethian struggle
preceded the cold dip into consciousness.

A river morning, fresh, clean and crisp. Mid-May in Texas is hardly Spring, but rather the sort of summer you see in movies. They don't shoot many movies in mid-summer Texas. The makeup melts. The harsh reality of Texas summer is somehow on hold and blessings of open window nights abound. The river was glassy green this morning, a blush of mist on its cheeks. The woodpeckers and bluejays drug the sleepy sun over the Eastern horizon, slow at first, but picking up speed as it awakened. The Brazos is lazy today, it seems in no hurry to make it to the Gulf, no pent up desire for salty reunion, the constant urge to reunite with the great waters milder this morning. Perhaps a morning like this is even enough to give pause to the river and slow it to a crawl to extend the ecstasy.

Pizza Hut in Weatherford. Time Travel. Memories of a Pizza Hut at Denton Highway and Broadway in Haltom City. An Eckerd's sits there now. Dark, depressing, overpriced, dirty, and that's just first impressions. The "waitress," bless her heart was clearly working at her intellectual limit. However, the Pizza was as ordered, cooked fresh, hot, and very tasty. A short drive to the Brazos and turn the air on in the trailer

A day without Blog, is a day sure to clog. An unflushed mind is a terrible waste. Blog, blog everywhere nor any net connection to be found. Okay, so I missed yesterday. I spent my time wisely, but I know the pearls were missed.

The short version of the weekend is:
Friday night dinner with friends. Cool from some corners, but okay overall.
Saturday morning in the office, Quicken cramming and a little work.
Saturday afternoon, T-ball, and Grandkids at the river. Bank fishing for perch, hotdogs, a movie in the DVD.
Sunday a dash to deliver the Grandkids home, then to Church, then to lunch, then to visit TC & Ida, then to the TT by the Brazos. A short trip up the river with RFW and Fishhook George. No Beaver sighted, pissed on by a nervous Yellow Lab who is still much a pup. A wade through the river after a bumped Sandbar launched Fishhook George off the front platform and into the river. I needed to rinse the dog piss off anyway so I jumped in to help him back into the boat.

Another Saturday morning, another marble moved from the not quite infinite number in the cookie jar and into the old milk bottle. A thousand weekends, Saturdays and Sundays, those days when we seem to do the things that define who we really are. I write this from my desk at the office. Enough said. Two nights away from the Brazos have left me a little somber. I've grown dependant upon the flowing river's cleansing, constant renewal. Perhaps tonight.

Alone is a physical fact, but lonely is a self imposed state of mind. I have been lonely when surrounded by people who love and care for me. It is a choice. I suppose there are a few who will be lonely as a consequence of circumstance, who would choose to not be lonely, but for the most part the loneliness is a result of the walls we build, of the assumptions we make and hold dear, of the anger that we project. I choose to not be lonely. Connection to another human being, spiritually, verbally, or physically is generally possible for everyone. I think without exception, everytime I have been lonely in the past, I can see now that it was my choice, it was my walls and it was my anger, or my pain that drove the wedge between me and the balance of the world.

Bi-Polar, schizophrenic, crazy, troubled, labels, but no nearer normal. I ache with empathy for my friend who suffers the torment of a child in trouble that he cannot help. Helpless to stand and watch the system grind slowly toward discharge disconnected from healing. Treatment scaled to insurance and co-payment and frustration coupled with the quagmire of attempting to diagnose and heal based upon the ephemera of psychiatric symptom described by the nuero-psycho dynamically disturbed.

Third time the beaver has appeared and seemed to laugh and playfully slap the river surface as he swims away unscathed by awesome firepower unleashed from the East bank of the Brazos. Another frustration for a rapidly weakening old friend who realilzes he no longer has the "dead-eye" of a superior marksman, but that too is a loss to count in the hours awaiting one of the few remaining dawns.

Of late, the only thing I find more wearying than the rapid, geometric growth of my cynicism, is the frequency with which I receive new clues that I'm a naive, trusting, fool, and need to learn that nothing is what it seems, everyone is lying, and the reason I saw the rug move just now is that "they" just got a death grip on it in preparation for jerking it decisively out from under me.
O.B.T.W. (Oh, by the way): I remain troubled by the fact that daughter does not rhyme with laughter but it does rhyme with slaughter.

It smelled of death in the house. I noticed it immediately upon entering. I knew the smell, it reminded me of my mother's house when she was dying of lung cancer. It is distinctive. I suspect the dying do not smell it or they would never laugh. I dread the tech heads figuring out how to market "virtual olfactory images." Last night I knew, once and for all, that my friend is really dying. He has looked bad, but the editor in my mind sees the old friend, the one who laughs, the one who is always ready to abuse the new meat and see what they are made of. The editor in my mind hears the bad news masked by carefully designed cheerfulness. But, the editor doesn't have the techiniques to edit odor. These days the tech heads have made it impossible to believe what you see and what you hear. they digitize and manipulate and nothing is necessarily real any longer. You can add or delete voices and you can add and delete images from photos and videos. But for now, the smells, the olfactory evidence, the undiluted tincture of life, or death, is real and it is not subject to manipulation. You can hang all the air fresheners you want, but it is still there, lurking in the very midst of the hazelnut-vanilla world you want to believe in.

I come here today to embark upon a monologue with the world. Mind vomit, dream droppings and visonary illusions may make their way here from time to time. Read with care, courage and caution, for the Brazospoet is plural.