Rain is smashing into my metal-encased domicile and sending up an old sweet sound to me. This may be the last time I hear it and I have wondered of late in earnest about that. The sound of rain in the big city just isn’t the same.
I am drinking day-old cold coffee. I am thinking about my incredible times here and some incredible people I met from the area and the interesting people I brought to the area. I am thinking about how the Pandemic and Trump murdered some stellar Oregon Tavern Age places.
My body aches from tree planting. That gig is finished. I hope it’s not the last time I plant trees. I have an essay on tree planting I plan to write soon. Actually it’s already written in my head, when I was tree planting.
Who will replace me in this funky domicile? What will they bring to the area?
Like a ship at sea. Or perhaps in space. That’s what it was to live here. I was never lost. I probably wrote a million words in and around this domicile.
It was odd to walk in rain to the place I would shave. Nothing like rain to work up a lather on a beard.
The light is coming up. The ocean will be churning when I visit and pay my respects.