All right, lets get going here. Hopefully the sheer weight of these stones rolling off my shoulders will convey how hard it is raining outside.Like the Dellmore Bros. say, Time Goes By, and still I cant be Free.
Start we at the beginning, or at least the most recent be
ginning, for good lord knows there are enough of them. In red brick and orange light, contemplate the section yard, the southern railroad of Seattle, where once stood the proud Rainier brewery, along
side coal-fired trains and men in overalls. Oh, Four Roses too, to be sure, in a brown paper bag. With the summer on the horizon, yet without the leaves to remind us that it will even sooner be gone,
this is the sacred time of day and year, when we move effortlessly through the vapor of
life like we are swimming; the universe aligns itself, and we simply bask.
Then, it is off to the peninsula, and !Quileute Days! that famous celebration of indigenous fireworks, Coors, and motorized canoes. The landscape is pristine, except where we put our tent, which was the hulking skeleton offspring of charred sea-cucumber and mary poppins umbrella. It was dark when we got out there, so we camped strategically right next to a Honey Bucket, our north star in that great darkness. At one point, it got to be like a Buster Keaton movie scored with Scott Joplin; myriad tiny dancers' doing the Bladder Unstuck.
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