So, here we are in the middle of another sleepless night. Even Dickens isn't having his usual soporific effect. I figure, OK, might as well get
something done. In about six hours I am going to be at the airport with my friends to receive the body of their son. You may not know it but this is something else the Bush administration had to be shamed into doing.
Before there was a big stink raised the bodies were first sent to Dover, where there were no photos allowed. From there they were treated and processed like any other cargo. They made their way like any other
baggage. Now it has changed. A public fuss was made and, like the cowards they are, they caved.
We will be there, this morning, with an honor gaurd. Waiting for our son and friend. My emotions are a lot different, maybe since this one has hit much closer to home. These weren't acquaintences or folks that live nearby. These are friends. This isn't some kid I vaguely knew, this is a kid that used to come over and sit in my house, played my guitars, dated my daughter.
Again, the case is that what I believe when it comes to gods and stuff isn't what's important here. What matters is not my politics or spiritual beliefs. The important thing is that my friends are having trouble, they need help that I can give, and I am going to give it.
It doesn't even matter to me now when I think about the questions like: How many more?
As many as I have to do.
How much longer?
As long as it takes.
I've been doing my usual stuff to pull out of the funk. I was at my doctor for another issue and he noted my downbeat mood. He offered medication for depression and I told him I am not fucking depressed. I am sad. I am not in a "down cycle." I am grieving.
I am also fucking outta here for a few days. When my duty at the funeral is finished I'm taking a couple horses up into the Superstition Mountains. I am going to ride around and simply exist for a few. I am not going to think about work, or finance, or politics, or anything except those age old questions of philosophy. One of the things I really appreciate about being out there alone is that the vastness of the landscape and the healed over natural scars of previous attempts to "tame" the desert by the Hohokam, the Spanish, the Mexicans, and lastly the Americans all speak to me of our smallness and insignificance in the scheme of things. I know of some old spring fed water holes that are near an abandoned orchard. I might even get some fishing in. In this area of the mountains they don't allow motorized vehicles so my reveries won't be disturbed by the fumes and noises of engines burning fossil fuels.
My intinerary is this: A day to pack in. A day to hang out. A day to pack out.
The day I am leaving is the day I turn 58. Fifty eight years old, just celebrated fourteen years of sobriety. One of the things I have learned from the sobriety part is that when I get to feeling overwhelmed sometimes the best thing I can do is to step back, take some time away, and just think about stuff. I am taking my mare, Rosalita and my beautiful little mustang Sally and I intend to lie on my back and look up at the stars.
Hell, I might even pray that there's something out there to believe in.
Talk to all ya'll mas tardes amigos.
3B'sLabels: Superstition Ride
