Mid-September Evening

On the roadside a few hours past sunset listening to the sound of the motor turning in the truck. Truck headlamps shining out in front of two dirt tracks and a strip of green between. On my left a wire fence attached to wooden posts firmly entrenched in the ground. Barb wire on top of the fence. Beyond is a meadow covered by 3 feet of evenly laid fog, a pure white blanket shining in the moonlight. Beyond the fog-carpeted meadow three blue mountains stand in the distance, their lines curving against the sky, darker than sky though, opaque. Beyond those three blue mountains are two more blue mountains, darker still, bluer still, even more opaque and mysterious. The fragile moon cuts lines of light down from the heavens and as always, I am standing on the roadside....watching.

El Sangre de Cristo

Valleys and fields, old wooden churches with white clapboards peeling away, the sun shines through, rolls of hay bound tightly and resting...yellow school buses in the lot, no cars in the general store lot, grasses mowed, firewood stacked, sun an immense circle of light in the brilliant blue sky, camera pans down on the silver truck navigating the black-top two line highway...a young-ish man is at the wheel, his lower lip swollen on the left side with chewing tobacco, no music on in the cab of the truck, windows down, wayfarers on, white t-shirt, faded blue jeans and black cowboy boots---

image cuts to black and white and a little boy in the backseat, two sisters beside him, mother and father in the front, the sisters talk to one another, the father speaks to the mother, the boy sits with his forehead against the glass looking....

image cuts to present and man at steering wheel of silver truck...

image cuts, nothing remains, everything stays the same...

camera pans into the man's head...thought bubbles of spirit and sight, monsters and daydreams, far off lands and familiar rooms, dawn on the prairie, nightfall on the plains, a solitary tree silhouetted against the light, stars showing in the east, vibrant colors in the west, the man with long hair, skinny and young, blowing bongs hits and laughing, his eyes wide and red, image cuts the man at 32 lying naked and shivering on the western floor, tears streaming, wailing sounds, nightmarish sounds, beating his head against the brick tile, fingernails scratching, fists beating...all the dust gathered in flame, all the flame gathered in spirit, all the spirit beginning to lift him away...the flame flickering in the dark, the kernel and seed nearly expunged, the heart beating fast then growing slow, faint now...image cut of the heart slowing, the needle dropping, quiet...."pump-squiiiiish..........pump-sqiiiiiiiiiiiish....pump-squiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiishhhhhhhhhh" it pauses and then begins again, for some reason, it begins again...."pump-squish...pump-squish....pump-sqish"

El Sangre de Cristo flowing through his veins.

Resig Nation

It's a strange feeling. You wonder if you are at the beginning of a long journey or perhaps just a brief adventure. So many things...that we will never remove...I know you're sorry...I'm sorry too...Match stick men with hollow eyes and spines of gold, fiery bombs of the noon day glow, it's not all for show. It's real. The Big Doubt. The Great Discontent. Like a fish doesn't know what water is because it's ALL he knows. That's what it's like. Am I co-dependent because I want to be with her? Because I'm falling for her? Fuck if I know. Funny how I throw this heart of mine out there. You'd think I'd be more jaded, more cautious, more cynical. Somehow it's not in my nature. This sunny disposition. Ha! Painted birds on the mantle.Owls hooting at dawn. Bunnies feisty at the side of the road. Two dirt tracks with a strip of green between. Halloween.

How often do you think of death? I think of it all the time. Seriously all of the time. It's never far from my thoughts. It's not a gloomy thing. It's a reality thing. No one here gets out alive. How many days do I have left? How many hours? How many moments? The future is a fool's errand. The past a cosmic joke. The ever-ripening present is all there is and all there will ever be. I seized the day but it didn't seize me back. It laughed and shrugged me off. I felt dejected, alone. I've always felt dejected and alone. In a crowd sure. By myself, not so much. This land, these hills, these rivers and streams...these valleys and fields. At night when I close my eyes and sleep comes upon me, at night when the heaving of my chest moves in unison to the slow-disintegration of wood in the fire, my spirit climbs from me, my spirit soars...out of the cabin and into the night, above the pines and oaks, over tree tops and meadows, star-speckled, moon-struck, holy and crisp in the night sky, the milky firmament of our little backward corner of the galaxy. My spirit floats. My spirit twirls. My spirit moves through ever-settling fog and mist, through illuminated clouds pierced only by noiseless wind and gathering moonlight. Houses are still and small on the painted night-scape. Small columns of smoke trail off from chimneys, solitary headlamps from a single car wind along mountain roads and disappear among the trees.

When I return home, when I awake, the sun has risen and something in me tells me to rise too. I am not rested. I am not refreshed. Another dog day of sun-bleached existence. I faintly remember soaring the night before. There is a glimmer of the dream, an echo, but no reply, no purchase in my conscious-life. The subconscious sleeps. The conscious goes about the day as if in a dream. People, conversations, work, all the detritus of living. Splashes of light and shadows hint at it. Small animals whisper it. reflections of the sky in cool pools of water eddied along the river, swollen boulders resting in the shallows....

I know I will be old and alone. I can't help the thought. It's truth. As much as I desire...and I DO desire...The Great Desire ever as powerful in me as The Great Discontent and The Great Doubt. The Great Desire...oh how you plague me! How you drive me! How you keep me going with your dangling carrot of happiness, contentment, peace and tranquility. I am destined for loneliness. I am feted for solitude. I am resigned to it.

Kitchen Sex

The following post is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

I am standing in the restaurant kitchen with her. We are alone. There is one other person at the resort, a security guard and he is half-deaf. The lights are off. The doors are locked. Bits of sunlight stream in the dining room window and illuminate the stainless steel work tables. We are standing on the line and she drops to her knees on the terra cotta tile floor, unzips my jeans, fishes out my cock and holds it in her graceful feminine hands. Greedily she opens her mouth and takes me in. Instantly I feel her soft moist tongue swirling around my pulsing cock. Her hands are around my thighs. Her knees dig into the tile beneath us. I lean back against a stainless steel work table with my hands on her head. My fingers grasp locks of her long brown hair. She goes at it with relish. Her tongue flicks and swirls all over the ever-swelling shaft of meat. I hold her head forcefully, gripping her by her hair and rock her head back and forth on my cock. She gurgles and gags as my cock fills her mouth and throat to capacity.

Impulsively and without warning I pull her head back away from me. A string of saliva stretches from her mouth to the head of my cock. It glitters in the afternoon light that is cast in muted rays across the gleaming kitchen surfaces. I pull her to her feet by her hair and kiss her deeply. Spin her around and roughly push her upper body onto the steel counter. I unsnap and unzip her jeans shorts. I pull them down to her ankles. I do the same with her cotton panties. Her breath is heavy. She has already begun to sweat. With one hand on the small of her back I have her arch for me. Her thighs catch the light and her back arches. Her pussy rises past her thighs and exposes itself to me. I don't lubricate her or give any warning. I pause for just one moment with the head of my cock barely touching her moistened lips. And I plunge headlong into her. I feel her hot womanly essence contract and expand around my cock. She gulps for air and her hands search the smooth stainless steel table for purchase. Again I grasp her hair, pull back her head, bite her neck..all the while pushing in and out of her with force. Her body shakes and her breath is quick. As I fuck her I notice some of my tools sitting on the workspace. I pick up a rubber spatula in one hand. I take in the vision of her porcelain smooth ass cheeks, tanned by the sun and gorgeous, round and inviting. I bring the spatula up in the air and cut down on her flesh. The rubber tip resounds with a pounding SMACK on her ass cheek. She cries out loudly and tries to toss back her hair but cannot as it is being held firmly in the grasp of my other hand. I whip her again and then again. Her cries grow louder and louder. I set down the spatula for a moment and gather a white cotton chef's towel in my hand, twirl it into a gag, loop it over her head, into her clenched teeth, tie it into a knot at the back of her neck.

I pull her shirt up and take in the sight of her beautiful and flawless back, tanned skin stretched over toned muscle. Without warning I whip her back muscles cruelly. Her pussy clenches hard around my cock as I rock it in and out of her. Her cries are muffled by the improvised gag and I delight in them. I whip her again and again. Her body is now covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She is nothing but a pool of sex now. Her gorgeous body is splayed out before me, pressed against the steel table, her panties around her ankles and her little white ankle socks and sneakers.

I give her a few moments rest from the beating while I find another improvised torture device. I select a pair of chef's tongs from the pile of tools on the table beside her. I push her crumpled torso to the side and release one of her beautiful breasts from her bra. I take the nipple in my fingers first, then in the teeth of the tongs. I pinch down on the tongs and squeeze her nipple hard leaning back so that it is pulled away from her body. She squeals from behind her gag as I make rhythm with her pain with the pounding of my cock in her pussy. I give her other breast the same treatment before returning to the spatula.

Again she is chest down over the table. This time her bare breasts lay on the cold stainless steel table. My left hand holds the back strap of her bra while my right hand wields the spatula. I ride her like an equestrienne rides his horse. I whip her ass, her thighs, her calves, her back and arms without mercy. She writhes in pain. She bucks in pleasure. She is dripping wet, sopping with juices all over my cock. I find a beautiful rhythm there with the spatula falling in heavy blows against her and my cock digging ever deeper into her gorgeous and pulsing pussy. I feel it rising up in me and with one last smack on her back and one last muffled scream into her gag I empty myself into her. I shake and call out her name.

Another few punctuated moments and the chaos and brutality of the scene are done. I drop the spatula. I release her bra strap from my grip. Still inside her I bend down over her sweat-drenched back, reddened with the heat of my blows. I undo her gag. I kiss her softly on her back, her neck, her arms, her cheeks. I gently brush back her hair from her face. She cannot speak. Her legs tremble. Her body shakes. I place soft, sweet kisses on her face, on her eyelids and lashes, on her lips. I coo and fawn over her. I touch her gently now, sweetly brushing my fingers softly across her bruised and punished skin. We stay this way for a good while as the beating of our hearts slow. I have no idea how long we've been here. Time has disappeared. We are the only two people on earth at this moment. Finally my cock softens and slips out her, my juice runs out and down her thighs. I help her up off of the table and into my arms. She is putty. She is pudding. She collapses into me. I feel my muscles holding her. I feel my beard brushing against her soft feminine face. Lazily her eyes lift and meet mine. We are both without words. We don't need any. Standing in the darkened kitchen I hold her, my jeans around my ankles and resting on my boots, her shorts and panties at her feet.

We sigh and linger in this holy embrace.

The Black Battle

Been a fucked up week, man. Just weird. Weird shit. All up in my head. The itty bitty shitty committee. Restless, irritable and discontent. No real reason. No good reason anyway. My mom was in town this weekend...(for fucking example as I'm trying to write this blog my computer keeps freezing up on me...little shit like that)...but ANYWAY...what was I saying??? Oh yeah...restless, irritable and discontent...Some days everything clicks, other days it doesn't...some days it feels like a fucking struggle.

Illusions. Delusions. Consciousness. Seeing my mother just broke my heart again into a million tiny pieces. The pain of loss. Real-life heavy duty stuff. My dead father (and my fist wanting to punch through the screen of this fucking laptop as it keeps freezing up on me...) Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I am doing...where am I? Who am I? What the fuck is this or that? How'd I get here?

There are moments when I feel just like the little boy I used to be, wondrous,

full of awe, joy, hope, optimism…all that good shit. Then there are other times, dark times, times when I feel BLACK. I swear on my life I could kill a man. I know I could. I could snuff the life right out of that sumbitch. Feel his life draining away from him, watch the eyes flutter, wide in disbelief, piercing with fear…then grow cold and distant…dead, lifeless. Feel the muscles spasm one last time before the body goes limp and the life evaporates before my eyes. And the nightmare that I am now a murderer begins. The burden of that life I’ve stolen from the world weighing down upon me. There have been times when I’ve woken from dreams and wondered if perhaps at some point in my life I really DID kill someone and just blacked it out, just pushed it into the furthest reaches of my consciousness…a terrible secret I’m saving for Judgment Day.

I think of my father all the time, mostly fond thoughts and memories but seeing my mother this weekend brought darker things…the memory of the night he passed, the vision of his dead body swaddled in white linen, the days, weeks and months leading up to his death when his mind began it’s journey into the next realm and the body just needed to catch up. He’s pushed his way past us now, headed fearlessly into the unknown. He always told me I was far more brave and courageous than he ever thought about being. I never believed him. I’ve been wild, careless, reckless. He’s the one who is brave. he is the courageous one. I’m still that boy from King Street, still kicking my tennis shoes in the dirt and throwing rocks against metal signs just to hear the “ping.” I’m visceral, romantic, brooding, sensual. Let something go my way and count the minutes till I figure out a way to fuck it up. Won’t let myself rest or be content for more than a few moments, push push push…never stop, never slow down, never give in, never give up. Even when the thing I’m looking for has been found, when the great discovery has been made, when the seas have been crossed and the peak summited….even then I won’t feel the joy of victory or release of accomplishment. It’s just how I’ve always been. I’ve tried to find peace with it but even that eludes me. I won’t even let myself accept the fact that I can’t accept things. I need drama, mystery, the unknown. I need something to fight for, someone to fight with. I need a battle, an enemy. I need villains and foes. And the best villain I’ve ever come across, the fiercest competitor, the most worthy combatant has always been myself. Cause myself will never give in, never give up, never call time out. I won’t accept defeat not will I claim victory. I’ll fight just to fight. I’ll go round after round and the joy will not be in the raising of my hand at the end, not in the applause and kudos of the galley. The joy will be in the blows themselves, the PAIN, the bruises, the scars. I’ll finger them later. I’ll covet ever scratch and claw mark. I’ll relive each moment from the wounds I proudly wear on my flesh. I’ll gaze childlike at the greenish purple bruises that blossom into black. I’ll relish the ache and weary tenderness of my muscles after a good bout. My eyes will become steely and glazed over when I muse of the next go. My heart will quicken, my fists will clench, my jaw will tighten. I’ll call to my opponent to rise. I’ll lock eyes with him. My conscious self will disappear into the ether as I engage…sweet release and escape.

Quiet

It's been an afternoon of realizing the shifting paradigms. Today I slowed down for the first time all summer it seems. After an amazing morning waking in her arms and making love I drove the truck back to Spanishburg. Hit Athens Rd. down to Highway 19 and turned right on my golden road of homeward country bliss. Passed school buses leaving Spanishburg school. Waved at a neighbor outside the Valley General Store, crossed the Hank Williams Sr. Memorial Bridge and slowed down, pulled into the gravel lot in front of the Spanishburg Post Office, gathered my mail, nodded at another gent and continued on home.

I can honestly say without a moment's hesitation or doubt that I don't want to be anywhere else in the world other than here. Meadows and fields stretch and roll over hillsides and down valleys, leaves are just beginning their late summer fading. The sky is the most brilliant shade of blue. There are pinkish white clouds drifting lazily above the deep green mountains. There is a pause, a respite, a break. The lawnmowers are quiet today. The gardens that have been sowed, hoed, weeded, watered, fertilized and kept up all summer now sit heavy laden with fruit. Immense rolls of hay dot fields as far as the eye can see. Horses and ponies wag their soft feathery tails standing in the cool mountain breeze as they are warmed in pulsing late summer sunlight. The highway weaves through this pastoral scene with breathless efficiency and economy. The windows are open in the truck. Ryan Adams belts out one of his heartbroken cowboy songs and I ease up on the gas and drift into yet another mountain turn.

The pace of the summer perhaps behind me. If not beginning to fade. Changes. Buried father. grieving mother. Distant sisters. Nights spent cooking cooking cooking. Hot nights over the grill, twirling my tongs and saute pans. Grilling meats over a red hot barbecue. Searing fish. Dressing freshly picked vegetables in butter and herbs. White plate after white plate. Table after table. Unlock the restaurant, turn on the lights, bring in the mats, turn on the hood, unlock the fridges, pull out the equipment, glance at the prep list, cut meats, fillet fish, trim vegetables, reduce sauces, chop herbs, set up my station, meet with the wait staff, prepare and eat staff meal, take a break outside and stare at the river, text with my sweety, start service at 5:30pm, end at 9pm, break it all down, wrap it all up, wipe it all down, carry out the mats, lock the fridges, write the prep list, cut off the lights, lock the restaurant for the night, another night in the book.

Moments

It seems like ages since I've written anything or published a blog post. I've had tons of ideas of things I've wanted to write about but it seems that I've just been full of living, super busy and always on the go for much reflecting lately. Here are some snapshots that have been in my head.

Standing in the morning sun with her in my arms, in the green grass beneath the peach tree in her front yard. The tree is loaded down with soft, ripe, sweet peaches. The air smells of them. The sun is warm on my skin, her skin is tan and warm to the touch. Her long brunette hair falls down past her shoulders in ringlets. Her eyes are amber, caramel in the light. Her lashes flutter and our mouths meet. We dance our tongues around one another's. I feel the curves of her body with my hands and we embrace tightly. Everything stops. Everything is still. Time has disappeared and there is no one and no thing in the world but me and her and this kiss.

Driving home from work along the dirt road that winds through the canyon. The moon is epically bright and radiant. I listen to music as I rumble along in 4 wheel drive and navigate the truck through the forested and animated night. I approach a gate and stop to open it. The sound of the rock music from my truck fades and the headlamps of the truck shoot cones of light out onto the road in front of me. I open the gate and drive the truck through, returning on foot to close it. I open the door of the truck and extinguish the headlights, close the door and stand on the roadside looking off into the distance. A well-maintained wire fence follows the road, wooden posts pushed into the ground and a crown of barbed wire running the length of the divider. On the opposite side a yawning meadow stretches for hundreds of yards and is softly lit by pulsing rays of moonlight. As my eyes adjust forms of deer appear scattered in the meadow, two here, three there, four in the distance, clustered and solitary they garnish the field with their white tails reflecting moonlight and their eyes suspicious and wary of me. They soon lose interest and drop their heads to continue grazing. I become cognizant of my breath, the in/out in/out in/out...the rise and fall of my chest, the steady thumping of my heart. Beyond the moonlit meadow low hills are stacked against the horizon displaying a darker shade of night. Higher still, on a high shelf of earth stand still taller mountains, their haunches rising and falling against a canvas of star-speckled sky. Shadows of trees are cast upon grasses, shadows of clouds move across mountainsides. The moon pulses, becomes cloaked in cloud vapor and then reappears as bright as before. This all takes place in a matter of moments. Quiet moments, thoughtful moments, real-life moments...when the bustle of the day is past, when the work has been done and there is nothing left to do but be still. Moments like this raise my skin into goosebumps and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as if they want to gather all of it they can. The place around me, the place I have come to, the place that has called me, the place that was once and is now again home wraps her loving arms around me. I think of my father. I think of him growing up in these hills, becoming a young adult, marrying my mother, fathering my sisters and me. I recall his smile and laugh and his strong embrace. Again I cast my gaze into the heavens and I feel his spirit within me. My breath quickens and my eyes swell with moisture as I speak into the night, "I miss you Dad. I miss you."

And then in a blink the moment is gone. I re-enter the truck, click on the headlamps, shift the gearbox into drive and motor the engine home.