newstuff

The thing to remember is that it keeps going and going and going no matter what. The particulars change. This time it's this and that and last time it that and this and next time it might be this and this or that and that, cats in hats probably as it all winds down there won't be much besides rats. All of this has happened before, all of it will happen again. What makes this go round different is that it's yours, your turn, your time. Your time at the helm during the storms when the southward rolling breakers coming up behind you, so big they grab the back of the boat and heave it forward pitching it sideways and down, throwing it skittering across the water as the waves roll under it, headed for the southern shores, the canal run, the end of days run, the run to the next ocean, to the places you've never seen or dreamed and that's what you do, you lash yourself to the mast and you ride the ride. It's what the last guy did; it's what the first guy did. It's what the next guy is going to do too. There's a little piece of you in everyone, everyone in you  and everyone full of piss and shit and vinegar. That's what you get leaving the wine out in the heat again. So you ride and ride and then you get off and someone else gets on. And it goes, always the ride goes.

Whenever I was off writing for a while and came back my wife would ask me why are you still chasing her after all these, all these words why are you still following her, she doesn't even know who you are and all I could do was stare at her and think because she is there, because she was there, because I want to find her again, she is out there somewhere, somewhere right now she the hem of her dress is brushing atop her knees as she crosses and uncrosses her legs a dinner, the softness of the fabric, the roughness of the white table cloth the clatter of heels on the side walk, the rustle of newspapers fold and unfolded, laid on the table, the honk of of horns around the corner, trash trucks, the sweet smell of garbage caught in the cool night air, the blast of air brakes and white breath of diesel steam chasing the drain pipes out of that concrete canyon up fourteen stories high until it disappears into the bruised black night. She is out there, she is always going to be out there until I find her. 

Jimmy never asked. He always knew I think. Or suspected at least. But he never asked, we never spoke of it. A perfect little army of two, silence. We had other things to chase.