This is where they found his car after more than a week. He had driven here, parked, and then just disappeared somewhere. His absence was noticeable because he wasn't the kind of person who would just go off like that. People were worried and they called the police after the first day. They found his body a few miles from where the car was parked. When they went through the crumpled coffee cups and cigarette packs, the old newspapers in the front wheel well, and the dirty clothes and various tools in the back seat, they found tucked into the dashboard in front of the speedometer a hastily scrawled note that simple said: "You Can't Do Everything!"

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I can't see the forest or the trees. Just this one tree, looking gothic and not at all too well.

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It was the light that attracted me. That and the fact that there was a sign on the building that read: "We Sell Boxes".

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Her ship came in.

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Prince Georges Metro parking lot

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It was a dark and stormy night and one man turned to the other and said, "Jack, tell us a story", and Jack said: "It was a dark and stormy night. Two men stood on a bridge and the first said to the other, 'Jack, tell us a story'. And Jack said: 'It was a dark and stormy night...'"

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Metro Spring

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Sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I will catch a brief sight of myself as a younger person than I am now, and I'll think, "Damn, I still look pretty good"! Or, I'll think: "Who are you and what do you want from me?" Or I'll briefly fall into a Swedish movie from the mid-1960s, black and white, where the setting is a farm near the arctic circle, and the sky is grey, and there is boundless silence except for the ticking of a mantel clock in another room and everyone living there has a terrible secret to protect, and I am only visiting for the week. Or, I pat my trouser pockets and my shirt pocket and the top of my head and I ask myself where my glasses have gone to.

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This is where pixilated game action figures go when they retire; sort of like Miami but without the beach.

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As above, so below.

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It's funny, but they can charge more for a house without walls or floors or windows or doors. It started with "loft apartments". Remember them? They came without walls and cost many times more than a house that had walls. Buyers ate them up! So, the developers took it to the next level: houses without anything; just a sketch really, a suggestion of shelter. Minimal, but fashionable. And more money than anyone could afford to pay. Soon, I suppose, even the sketch will vanish and we'll all live in castles in the sky.

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She said: "There are two kinds of developments going up out here in the country, or the far suburbs, or whatever it's called now: there's the "Elegant" town homes and the "Luxury" town homes. Who I hope ends up out here are the "Elegant" folks; you can trust them; they have some modicum of taste; they're not going to trash the place with their tacky selves and pollute up a storm with their incredibly large SUVs. Now, the "Luxury" folks are of a different kind all together. All they are interested in is their own self gratification practices, their own self aggrandizement. They'll buy anything, but not for themselves. They do it so that everyone else can see that they can buy everything. They go into hock. They overextend themselves financially and they we have to pick up the pieces. They let their house get run down and they stop paying on it then they skip town and leave us with the mess they've made. I don't care for the "Luxury" folks and I don't want them out here in "The Dwellings by The Dell" or whatever they're calling that development. Let the "Elegant" folks come instead if they have to."

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Flag Bros.

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It's time to go back to the garden.

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Back in the Jurassic (1969), everything was "heavy", as in "Oh, Wow, man, that's HEAVY". This was probably somewhat related to the fact that everyone seemed to be stoned most of the time and that, in fact, the slightest effort to move was impeded by the various substances being ingested at the time and that one's own body was, as a result in fact, heavy. Everything was heavy: a pencil, a feather, a roach clip, a pair of round rose colored sun glasses, a book, even the boundless time that passed slowly as the dust motes glided by the sun lit window. There's nothing that heavy anymore. We've moved beyond the realm of "Heavy" into a different, more onerous and threatening world; a realm of "Thick", maybe. Thick and sticky and hard to let go of. A scary, darker world equally as infused with fantasy as the "Heavy" world, but lacking the imagination and the warmth and the determination to make this world a better world somehow. Some day, and some how. The weight of this migration away from "Heavy" and toward "Thick" presses on us. It is as hard to move in the world of "Thick" as it was in the world of "Heavy" because the optimism is lacking. We are aware, very aware, of everything moving past us; very aware of what yet is still undone.

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He said: "I don't normally talk to people that I don't know. I know a lot of people, so I don't need to find new people to talk to. But, as many people as I know, there are more who know me. These people write to me asking for money, or advise, or they try to sell me something that I don't want or need. I don't know how they find me, but their attentions are unwanted and if I ever see one of them face-to-face, I'll tell them so. What do they want from me? And why don't they just go away?"

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National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC

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Not long ago, the road was its own destination. As a result, there were businesses set up on the road that were positioned to make you stop and rest awhile; take a look-see; stretch your legs a bit and maybe, just maybe, get a cool drink or something to eat, or catch up on some sleep. It made the road trip more fun, because there was always some kind of strange surprise just ahead. The road wasn't plastered then with National Chains, but with Mom and Pop store/motels/restaurants that had a local flavor and feel. That was when the road was its own nation.

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Happy Birthday, John!

It was an immersion into Dream Time; the time that flows slowly like a thickened drink that both cools and heats at the same time. The moments passed slowly and were full of the richness that comes with full attention and focus on the minutiae of each sound, each sight, each flicker of the scented bush being bothered by a passing breeze. It was being languid, yet alert; but most importantly, it was being together with friends and family sharing the same Dream Time.

And the sky was filled with the most amazing clouds draping themselves across a landscape bleached with sun and wind. The old windmill stood guard high up on the stone beach, a sentry overlooking the North Sea and all of its history.

He felt as though he were in a film, playing a small part that was nonetheless essential to the story being told. The sun was warm and welcomed after a week of rain; the wind cooling. His part was to walk across the concrete landing attracting the attention of the woman star. The camera would act as the woman's eye; his breathe would act as her heart.

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The hand that isn't holding a sword fends off what it can.

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Heard on Pennsylvania Avenue, between 11th and 12th:

He said: "It smells like White Bread!"
She said: "I broke my leg falling down the stairs"
She said: " Uh-Huh. That's what I'd of told him myself if I had the chance."
He said: "No, I can't make it then. What about next month?"

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Between here and there live the cows. That's where you can usually find them, because that's where they always are.

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Every year, about this time, they come: the Americans. They are easily distinguishable from the people who live and work here from their attire. The men, of a delicate age, and, one would think, knowing better, wear, even on these cool, early May mornings, brightly colored shorts that are stretched around their lumpen rumps like plastic meat wrap. Their wives are either much better preserved (or perhaps a more recent acquisition?), radiating a youthful glow and vitality, or are in the same broken down state as their husbands. The teenage girls that follow them are energetic, talking on their cell phones, flipping their long, darkly colored hair, and electric with the power that they now know they have. The boys, on the other hand, appear distracted and clueless, imagining, perhaps, the final duel that they'll have with their parents involving wrap around sun glasses, rocket launchers, and other heavy artillery.

They come here to see their elected officials at work, to see the museums, to eat fast food sold by national chains staffed by "guest workers". They come to see their tax dollars at work and secure in the knowledge that all is being watched over and protected by The Department of Home Land Sincerity. They come to smell the roses.

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