yoka da doke on a tipe-a-yoyo

that's okey dokey on a typewriter to the lay-parent.

instead of marvelling at the things we have, we dream about and worry about the things we don't.

i'm full of ambiguous aphorisms, hot wind, vile temper, wit, pith, pathos and vinegar.

Darkness falls and I imagine myself in different fatherly roles, a father in some East-coast urban ghetto, a father on the Serenghetti, in feudal europe, paleolithic northern Siberia, modern-day Palestine, barrio Mexico, a military father, a homosexual father, the stereotypical outsider father - an anachronism spread thin across cultures and eras, always forgotten, persecuted, barely documented, an anomoly no one expects but everyone silently appreciates.

Off tomorrow at daybreak for the Okanogan/Tanasket Barter Faire, a little mind-expanding literary woodsy socialism to whet unknown appetites and gather winter clothes for little ones to keep warm. Riding the only shotgun with good old friend Owen to a series of blankets, tables, bonfires and beautiful people dancing even though it's fucking cold. I will be incommunicado for the next several days, but feel free to leave a message. I shall return.