This ground we play on

I cannot stand the weight of incessant questioning and worrisome stress. My mother breathes these out from her very being, to the constant annoyance of myself, my father and just about anyone else in the near vicinity (and she's gonna read this too, I better get my shovel). Patience wears thin, especially when the bulk of mine is dedicated to twin two year old whirlwinds. The result is a short temper and sharp tongue, neither of which she particularly deserves but also, neither of which have I much luck in suppressing. We all find our outlets into which to vent. I bite my tongue a thousand times and am vilified the one time I cannot bite it.

Okay, with that over and done with for the time being... we played in the park today with Makayla and Emily and their mama Libby, my old acquaintance turned life-long friend what with our dabbling in this commonground of kids. We met at the playground, foreign soil for Lyli and Scarleht indeed, especially with so many kids around. There were about twenty kids playing there today, with parents of all ages, Libby and myself being the apparent youngest. It was good to see her again, been a few months now and the last time I didn't have the girls. Makayla is almost five and Emily Joe is a week older than my girls. Both of them are substantially more social! Libby's husband Ben is in Korea right now with the Air Force and is in for the long haul, another seventeen years or thereabouts. Whew. Not what either of them were expecting and I sense a bit of regret in Libby's overall demeanor but she is one of the strongest women I have ever met so my worry refuses to enlarge itself.

Watching my girls slowly learn to open up and play with strangers is interesting... especially in a playground setting. I wonder if their parents would be put off if they knew who we were and the lifestyle we embody. But that's the beauty of it I guess, some basic common ground that precedes any other knowledge of an individual. It sort of cuts the bias off at the seed.

Eamon and Will call me from the farmhouse, having just unloaded the wagon full of books Eamon drove back this afternoon. Strange, having other grown men call me to tell me a job is done, a job I would normally do alone. The evolution of my own dreams beyond the scope of myself is becoming a common theme, what with Last Word Books and its ever-growing sphere of influence and lack of dependence on me these days. I thought my travels were almost over for a spell but it seems I will be returning to Walla Walla on Thursday for another load of stuff and books. 'Twill be good to have a night alone with my father though, good sparse words and better whiskey well into the night I imagine.

Unused to the quiet this past month. My mind devours itself whenever gifted the opportunity, flames licking up towards tomorrow's word-kindling. Looking forwrd to a relaxed day at my father's dilapidated cabin, maybe a quick fish, walk in the woods, pop off a few shots from the old pellet rifle at some indistinct target just beyond my field of vision (those are the most fun). I quiver thinking of home and yardwork. Wine and tacos before the drive on Monday. I'm stocking up, not drinking and driving, don't fret.

Sold a copy of Pirate Papa 'Zine over e-mail today to DaddyTypes! One of my first fifteen purchases still, it has yet to lose it's allure.

Walla Walla is fucking hot. Supposed to be 104 on Sunday, a scant matter of hours from now. I revel in my self and these moments of solitude in the darkness of my high school basement. Remnants of my childhood litter the floors and walls, as memories litter my befuddled brain. My heart aches a bit for those lost souls onto which I wanted to hang. Hallowed and hollow are the bones of my belief that inside each of us is a thing of beauty, a creature capable of changing itself a million times over, of donning and shedding a thousand masks, of doing evil and spreading good, of feeling love, hate, remorse, hope, compassion, sympathy, empathy, sorrow. The trick is in the blending of this smorgasbord a dish delectable in its unique qualities, rare but precise in its bloody rage and artistic in its temperaments. Outside thunder from a sporadic flash of heat lightning tamps out a muffled drum roll on the underside of the sky. would that I could live up to my own language. adieu.