Planet Africa

Upon strong recommendation, I am reading Lonely Planets, the Natural Philosophy of Alien Life by David Grindspoon. I'm finding it interesting and engaging. Of course, I'm fascinated by this sort of thing. I do believe the prospect of life in the universe beyond this world is not only possible, but probable.

Reading this tome, along with John Muir, and my walkabouts in general has lead me to finding aspects of Pantheism filtering into my Buddhism. This does not bother me in the slightest. After all, I've always been a little syncretic in my practice, and Buddhism is, at its heart, a philosophy. A system of thought. Such a thing can evolve and change. Whereas with religion, one finds themselves kind of stuck in an obstinate dogmatic theme.

I am fascinated and humbled when I look up at the stars. There is an aspect of time travel, seeing objects as they were millions, if not billions, of years ago. It seems to me to be an act of ignorance, as well as arrogance, to believe this is the only world that harbors life. Although, I realize contact might still be a very long time in coming.

Something I truly believe in is the exploration of space. In fact, I think humanity's next evolutionary leap is to step off world, and begin to live amongst the stars. Much like that first group of hominids who went on walkabout out of Africa, some hundreds of thousands of years ago, and proceeded to colonize the rest of the world.

That wasn't too long ago, on a cosmic scale. When it comes to brass tacks and bedposts, Homo sapiens are but a baby step out of the stone age, and but a crawl from when they were still more quadrupedal and still hanging about in trees.

If I could live for an infinite amount of time, I would like to witness those first permanent steps off-world. To see the species expand throughout the solar system and out into others. The idea of what kind of civilization that would create is, in the here and now, the providence of science fiction writers, but I think it is no more fantastic than those first steps out of Africa.

Sometimes, I can get lost in the looking up at the stars. When I hear of the wars or political pettiness, I catch myself thinking this world is but a very small island in a very vast ocean, and no one should be pissing about over lines that were drawn in the sand back in a time when everyone was ignorant enough to think this was the center of the universe. It goes beyond being American or Muslim or Socialist. Every single lifeform on this planet is Terran, and that's that.

Or, to simplify, as a bumper sticker I once saw read; "Oh, evolve!"

Hundreds of thousands of years from now, but a baby step from the here and now, I hold out hope that the great evolutionary leap into the cosmos has been made. That the species pulled its collective head from its collective ass. I wonder about the civilization that will be spawned from that and how it will view its history. Whether they'll see the Homo sapiens of this timeframe in much the same way those early hominids who went on walkabout out of Africa are viewed here and now. I wonder if the motherworld, the planet Africa, will still be inhabited, or if it'll be some far-flung myth of some futuristic religion.

Backward Glances

Every now and again, I find myself going over things I have documented before. Reviewing the archives, as it were. An excavation of memory and perspective, looking at the stories, omens, riddles, hymns, lessons, and observations contained therein.

It is an interesting little exercise, to say the least. Looking back with twenty-twenty hindsight. It's queerly amusing to see what was important back then compared to the here and now. The style and tone of metaphoric voice. If one tries hard enough, it can almost be heard, echoing within the vacuum.

There was a period of about six years where I did little documentation upon paper in black India ink. The medium was almost all electronic. Upon the strands of the spider's web, there are fantastical stories and fairly personal musings. I also catch the little hints my past life left for my present incarnation. Since I am the only one in possession of that Rosetta Stone within the walls of my skull, I am the only one who can rightly decipher those riddles, hints, allegations, and things better left unsaid. There are just silly little trivialities. All shards of the complete whole.

Snake casing its tail, things come full circle. The form of medium has changed. Once more, I concentrate more upon pen and paper. I find it satisfying. A little more personal than even this, although I still sometimes speak in my riddle tongue of dragons, as to insure my privacy. Call it a quirk.

Oh, I keep in touch. There are still stories and observations I would like to share. And I am always watching, because, well, I like to watch. I just don't know, and, can longer promise, the frequency, or, lack thereof, when it comes to the medium of the electronic.

Homecoming Anniversary

A shot of my personal Kilimanjaro...

It comes up on our homecoming anniversary. What a wild ride we've had. One I'd not trade for godhood. It's been a couple of years now that we've lived in our Kashmir, after stumbling upon it, almost by accident.

My daughter and I went for a walkabout along the Notch. Being along north-facing slopes, there was still snow. In places, at least knee deep. But walkabouts like that remind me why over the last few years I stopped smoking and my alcohol consumption has dropped to the levels it was six or seven years ago. Why when I take in the views of towering peaks and grand rock formations, I see, hear, and feel the Divine.

I truly enjoy this and don't want to miss a moment of it. Here is where we belong, there is no doubt. This is our Kashmir.

Leaving the Badlands

...Around a year ago, we were all out in the badlands, the day before the holiday, because of other family or professional obligations the next day. She never liked that. She liked to celebrate a holiday on the day it falls on a calendar, but what can you do?

It was or month or so since the last bouts of chemotherapy. Her hair was slowly starting to grow back. Although neuropathy made her shuffle when walked, giving the appearance of locomotion of one much older than herself, she was feeling better. In good spirits. Her daughter was going to be walking down the aisle in less than a month and she was excited.

It never occurred to any of us it might be a last time. It never does, because you never really, really know for sure. But what can you do?

So it goes...

My father speaks of leaving the Rub' al Khali of the badlands of eastern Colorado. Oh, sure, back when my mother first walked on, he put on the bravest face. He was staying out there. Just as I love living in the mountains, he loved living on the badlands. He was still waiting to see John Wayne come riding up over the next rise. It was quiet and no one bothered him.

It's hard to say who he was trying to convince; all of us, or himself, but it probably doesn't matter...

Whether it's the loneliness or being snowed in during one of the last heavy storms is both debatable and irrelevant. My father told me he wants to move. To be closer to all of us, relatively speaking.

My father is sixty-two years old. In the last sixteen years, he's had two heart attacks. Out there, his nearest friend is six miles away. Since my mother has walked on, the dogs-save two-chickens, and sheep have been gotten rid of. There's really no more reason to have sixty acres of land.

We all agree it's for the best. My father's age and the possibility of something health-wise happening. Back when my mother was dying in the sickhouse, that was something my brother would talk to me about. My sister echoed some of the same thoughts when we chatted after Easter supper. I agree with both of them, although, even though I have assurances, I still sometimes worry that loneliness is going haunt and chase my father wherever he goes and he's one day going to crawl into a bottle and never come back out.

Of course it's all wait and see. See what the time and seasons hold. That house out in the Rub' al Khali is more isolated than where I am in the Sahel. With my mother gone, it might be fair to say that the badlands are not his Kashmir, and that perhaps leaving them might do him a world of good.

An Instrumental Thought

There is irony in the fact that I'm the only in my family who doesn't know how to play a musical instrument. I've often said it's because I lack the ability. However, I don't think that's quite right. In fact, I think it's a bleed-over of lack of patience from my adolescence.

What? I'm not able to play like Jimi Hendrix or Slash straight away? Well, fuck! I must lack talent.

And that self-imposed stigma stuck for well over twenty years...

I have lost track of how many times I've been asked if I'm a musician, what instrument I must play, or the name of my band. Seriously. All on account of the fact I have long hair, some tattoos, and a few trinkets. A judgment made based strictly on my appearance, and assumptions like that are a sickness.

Of course my father's convinced I have the ability if I'd just set my mind to it. He tells me I need to get over being self-conscious. Almost every time we talk, this somehow comes up.

"No child of mine is without musical ability," he says. "And especially not the first of my loins."

Well, lately, I've wondered. Even kicked around the idea. Apparently, when I decide I want to do something, it seems the only thing that prevents me from doing it is if I decide I no longer want it. At least that's the general observation. Although, it is said generalizations can be dangerous. Even and especially this one.

I could covet the banjo I got for my companion a few years back, since we're both left-handed, but that would be impolite. A guitar springs to mind. It would be kind of fun to do acoustic blues. I could even fashion a slide from a wine bottle's neck. With a guitar, if I learned, I could go to the locos jam and do more than just watch, even though I like to watch.

However, I guitar is not really speaking to me. Neither is a banjo. What does is a sitar.

Yes, a sitar. I'm sure one of my oldest and dearest friends would say this is a case of me being different just to be different, and sometimes I just can't help myself. Although I'd could mention George Harrison played the Sitar, and I like cats like Prem Joshua and the elder and daughter Shankar.

Here's the one I want;



http://www.amazon.com/Mid-East-Sitar-Lefty-Standard/dp/B0009IC3HQ

Only four-hundred fifty in paper-yes, I rounded up. I have already let my daughter know that Father's Day is coming up, and this is on the list. She gets an allowance, after all. The prospect does intrigue me, even if I don't have the paper for it.

Well, not yet...

As the Fist Holiday Approaches...

I could say it's because I've not even been remotely Judeo-Christian since I was at least fifteen, and a practicing heretical Tibetan Buddhist since my early twenties, that holidays, like Easter, don't mean that much to me. Oh, sure, I acknowledge it out of respect of my family and it's an opportunity to get together, have a few cocktails, and eat lamb. However, when I've missed the holiday for whatever reason, it's not hurt my feelings.

This year is different. I find myself looking to Easter with a nervous anticipation. Here's the holiday, which Christians celebrate as a day of resurrection, and it will be the first holiday my family's gotten together since my mother stepped into the bardo.

In a case of de ja vu, six years ago, Easter was the first family holiday after my grandmother died. Both my mother and I were morose on the subject, and we numbed our emotion with beer and whiskey. Strangely, as close as I was to my grandmother, this year's Easter seems so much more profound. Much more melancholy.

I wonder if it's because of the simple fact my mother birthed me. Or if it's the fact what would have been my parents thirty-eighth wedding anniversary was just a few weeks ago. Perhaps it's just because, and there is no simple answer.

My daughter made sure she could come. With my x being such the devout Catholic, I wasn't really sure if I should have bothered. My little girl took the initiative, pulling the look, bitch! My grandmother just died this past winter and this is the first time I'll get to see my Dad's side of the family since the memorial, and it's important, so if you don't fucking mind card.

Okay, I might have paraphrased some of that...

As is typical for family gatherings within my bloodlines, we're all expected to bring something to contribute to the meal. My brother is being a pain in the ass. My sister is being neurotic. My father is making the arrangements to get the lamb.

I worry/wonder what it'll be like. If there will be tears or stories or if, like the metaphoric elephant in the room, we'll all notice the specter-like void where a four-thousand year old chinless woman should be, and we'll not say anything about it. I wonder if my father will bring whiskey and encourage my brother, Whitie, and myself to join him in a tumbler or more. If it'll be a good time or a solemn occasion.

And I won't know until I get there, some five risings and settings of the sun. My talents might be many and varied, but I don't do clairvoyance. Here and now, I can theorize and what if until I drive myself mad by chewing on the inside of my skull, but it won't do much good. All I can do, is take a deep breath, focus, get my reptile zen on, and take what comes.

Weathertop

Some years ago, when Sabina and I decided Morocco was our Kashmir, Weathertop Manor was for sale. Though it was more than we could afford, we fell for it anyway. It was a one-hundred twenty-someodd old Victorian that was once a bed and breakfast hostel, which sits next to the cantina. It was purchased within a month of us scoping it. Sabina was a little morose about it.

As an example of things not being as they seem, we later found out Weathertop Manor did not have much land to it. The southwest corner of the house could potentially flood because of marshiness caused by the Brewery Spring that runs between it and the cantina. It turned out to be for the best that we didn't get it.

The cat who purchased Weathertop Manor lost his place, up and over, in a breakup. Morocco was not Kashmir to him, but a place to regroup. Just a place. He looked at me as though I was insane when I mentioned the concept of Kashmir to him. He did not appreciate the one-hundred twenty-someodd old Victorian for what it was.

Sometime during the winter, I began to notice a decided lack of activity around Weathertop Manor. Then, the notices began to appear on the front door. The outcome was both sad and obvious; it had been abandoned and there were events in motion to give possession of the property to a bank.

It's tragic because that beautiful Victorian might sit vacant for quite some time. And gods and bodhisattvas know what the cat may have done to it. Repairs and renovations might be a long and expensive process.

But then it'll be for sale again. Maybe not for as much as when Sabina and I wistfully thought about it, but so it goes. Maybe some seasonal snowbirds or real-world dropouts, like us, will purchase it. Whatever the case, I just hope whoever does purchase Weathertop Manor will appreciate the one-hundred twenty-someodd old Victorian for what it is.

Early Spring Walkabout

A couple of shots of the valley from an earlier walkabout with my daughter. It goes without saying I had one of those and I fucking live here! moments...

Even with light snow showers and mist, the air is getting warmer. Seeps and streams are thawing out, as is the Long Loch. I've caught splashes of green amongst the rust and khakis of the exposed grasses. At nine-thousand one-hundred eighteen feet, we can potentially get winter-like weather for another month or more, but I can feel spring starting to spring, and it gets me to smile.

The Challenges

"Lay with me lady
you're drivin' me crazy,
I promised you all my life
These things that sustain me
oh how they drain me,
But I'll never hang you out to dry..."-Live

This might be a little difficult to believe, but I have not always had the best luck with women. Well, not in the sense that goes beyond platonic. In fact, there have been times it's been quite abysmal.

I realize this comes as a shock. Yes, it's true, some women do spontaneously orgasm in my presence, and my rampant field of luminous masculinity does make strong men weep and wet themselves. But some are immune to my charms.

Remember, I am an aberration; being too tall, too skinny, with eyes too big for the rest of my face. My spine is twisted. From the standpoint of basic zoology, and, sometimes, the social construct of reality, I am not the first choice.

It has seemed to go in spurts, my more intimate interactions with females. Sometimes, I might have a few relationships in a row. Then, there are the times when I go quite awhile, sometimes years, without that sort of a dynamic. Both have had their upshots and downsides.

I am kind of solitary by nature, so being alone is often preferable. Letting someone in that close was not without peril. Nothing annoys me more than the smothering aspect some girls have inflicted on me, let alone the getting territorial. Or the lack of understanding when I lapse into silence, or fuck off somewhere to be by myself. There was a girl once who stated it was quite obvious I didn't really need anyone, and half the time, she wondered if I even wanted anyone.

During those times in between, I have occasionally seen one of those moments tenderness between lovers that genuinely pulls at my heartstrings, despite the fact I don't have a romantic bone in my body. There were times when I might find myself feeling a little lonely, even aching to share a moment or observation with someone special. But, I could just as easily dismiss those thoughts as thinking the girl for me, aside from having a fair amount of brain damage, probably was only a phantasm.

I can remember females who were intimidated and even queerly jealous of the fact that I lived with a woman for a few years. Nevermind said woman was one of my oldest and dearest friends, who I helped hook up with the man she would one day marry. For some reason, this was a wall to get to me, which was constructed in the mind of a girls who were obviously not worth my time.

And then my own quirks could get in the way too. Not being overly extroverted or lack of willingness to play the game. That solitary streak. Closing up in a crowed room, being content to watch, but not interact. My supposed sarcasm seemed to act as a barrier, or so I was told a few times.

Mei fei tsu...

Several years ago now, another of my oldest friends decided to start taking me out, under the auspice of socializing me. See, at the time, I might hang out with another hominid once a week, if motivated or pressed, at the most. He mentioned worrying I was getting too antisocial. There was also the fact it had been a few years since any of that kind of female involvement, and, in my friend's mind, that would just not do.

I didn't mind the idea of hanging out with my friend. His dragging me places could potentially be interesting. At the very least, I could monkey watch.

And that's how I ended up spending my time in the vampire caste. It didn't all suck. Some of the music was intriguing. There were some cats I found I got along with, even got to be friends with. I even eventually ended up getting involved with a female. My friend felt like he accomplished his mission.

For a little while, that wasn't bad with the one female. But things fall apart. Eventually, I said I was done. It ended up playing out like the lyrics to a Queensryche song;

"You're through with me
I'm not through with you..."

Yeh. Less than fun times. So it goes.

My other female dalliances were less than satisfactory as well. If for no other reason than the fact they ended up getting complicated somehow, and that's just not my scene. If I wanted complicated, I'd go watch a French film.

Sabina and I met roughly a year after my friend started bringing me out. The first night we met, I was looking for that female I first got involved with. Our respective others had once been involved, but this was not surprising. The vampire caste, like other social circles, had an incestuous aspect to it. One, which I thought made Dueling Banjos more appropriate at the juke joints than This Corrosion, Sex on Wheels, or Just Like Heaven.

So, we knew each other that way. I would sometimes bum cloves off of her and try not notice when she's get into it with her boyfriend at the time-frequently-at the juke joint. We ended up becoming friends and getting close through a joe job we both worked. I found I liked her better outside of the vampire caste then as one of its aristocracy.

Things began to fall apart with those respective others. We acted as counsel and commiserater for one another. Cheerleadered for things to work out, or say when it might just be time to walk away.

One night, at least a half of a year, if not more, from when I'd split from the one female, and probably in between dealing with some kind of brain damage complication from another one, and Sabina was in the swan-song days with her boyfriend at the time, had met to share a bottle of wine. It had an owl on the label, Sabina said she wanted to drink it with me because of strix. We were bemoaning the subject of romance and relationships.

I got into my misanthropy. Those solitary tendencies that made not being involved not so horrific. I mentioned that, given my most recent intimacies and their repercussions, I'd rather be alone, because, once more, it seemed not worth the brain damage. The girl for me, who could deal with the quirky paradoxical misanthropy, was probably a phantasm.

"You don't think you'll ever find someone to put up with that?" Sabina asked me.

"Fucking what? Do you think you could?" I growled before taking a big gulp of wine.

I could blame that on the wine, but I've always found blaming anything on drinking, other than perhaps a buzz or intoxication, a cop-out. To tell the truth, I'm not sure what exactly prompted me to say that to one of my close friends, other than, that night, I was finding myself particularly cynical and hostile towards my fellow biped. Even and especially those with tits. To her credit, Sabina didn't say anything, but instead, sort of looked off into the shadows surrounding us, and sipped her wine.

Almost a year before that, I had heard Sabina discussing the finer points of makeup. She remarked that she wouldn't even answer the telephone without it. This got my attention. Perhaps because of my fascinations with peering beyond Voodoo masks and poking at the worms underneath to watch them squirm. I do, after all, get curious like that.

"Really? You won't even pick up a telephone without your makeup?" I said with a fair amount of venom.

"It's true," she said. "No one sees me without makeup."

"Not even your boy?" I asked.

"No one," she repeated.

"Really?" I said, leaning closer. "You shouldn't go saying shit like that out loud."

"Why's that?" Sabina asked me.

"Because you might run into some weird fucker who has the Japanese pictogram for demon tattooed somewhere on their body that might take you up on that," I said.

"You won't do it," she said, and my growl and chuckle intertwined like serpents.

"Honeychild," I said. "You can either play nice, or I can come after you with a crowbar and a loofah."

There it was; a challenge. And, me being me who can sometimes get into trouble, or have a rollicking adventure, or both, when driven by curiosity, decided I just had to pick it up. Over a year later, meeting Sabina at what would become the Nostalgic New Orleans Residence, I had my first occasion to see her without makeup. She didn't miss my triumphant smirk.

"Well, aren't you just pleased with yourself?" She asked me mockingly. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," I said. "I told you one day I'd pull it off."

But, friends and otherwise, our dynamic has always been about balance. Just as she challenged me once upon a time without meaning it over a matter of makeup, it could be said I challenged her once upon a time over a matter of my misanthropy. I really do believe that.

Three months after I made that one crack whilst we shared a bottle of wine, I caught her in my mutherfuckingkitchen, taking it upon herself to help me cook dinner. There was the ensnaring of my hand when I returned from burying my father's mother. When I mentioned I wanted to move to the mountains, she said we should figure out a way to make it work, because she wanted to come too, enjoying my company. With my ideas of opting out, she has offered augments, in which to pull it off more thoroughly. She's expressed wanting to spend her life with me, and, so far, so good.

It's been a few years since that night with the bottle of wine with an owl on the label and me going on about being alone because the girl for me, the one who could deal with my paradoxical misanthropy, was probably a phantasm. These days, I find there is this one woman who has so ingrained and imprinted herself into my life I have a truly difficult time imagining it without her. And me, who was once told it was obvious I didn't need anyone, who it was questionable if I wanted anyone, who once said I don't belong to nobody, found myself giving myself, willingly, to her. I suppose that means something.

I have never been the type to test someone I purport to care for, not taking those tests myself. It's something I've always found petty, mean-spirited, and otherwise a bunch of who shot john. Still, it seems, without really meaning it, I handed down a challenge one night. And, it seems, Sabina rose to that challenge, however unintentional, quite well.

The Last Times

"Angels and demons dancing in my head
Lunatics and monsters underneath my bed..."-Rush

Perhaps the best place to start this story was a particularly craptastic day, in the waning days of winter, four years and ten days ago. My x-wife was getting married, so I was not getting my daughter for visitation. The vehicle I had at the time, the last one I would have whilst I lived in the city, decided to die on me. There was the matter of the female, I guess, I was involved with. She often preferred to stay home and either sleep or watch the telly than have anything to do with me. I think we phoned and, on rare as hen's teeth occasions, hung out, out of habit more than anything else. That particular crapastic day, we'd kicked around perhaps having a dinner together, but she either decided sleep or the telly was the more entertaining option.

So, I was already in a less-than-pleasant mood. This was back during a time when I had somehow found it okay to drink-often to excess-frequently. Sometimes for no other reason than the fact there was oxygen in the atmosphere. Having had a particularly craptastic day, I conspired to meet with some cats I was running with at the time at the Tiki Bar. I figured drinking several of the cheap redneck beers I was partial to at the time was in order. After the day I had, I rationalized that I earned it, figuring it couldn't get much worse.

What a fool I used to be...

The gypsy pulled me aside to talk almost before I had ordered my first beer, giving me a shot of whiskey. She told me how, because of certain paperwork, she was being sent back to her homeland for at least month. Maybe more. An exile of sorts. Of course, I found this devastating. We were pretty close, having swapped stories, poems, and drinks in the four years we had been acquainted. Be that as it may, that was the better of the bad news. The other aspect had to do with the archangel with a broken wing, Jibril.

"He's sick," she said.

"Fucking duh," I said. "I can smell it on him. I always have. The boy's got four kidneys in his body, and not a one of them works. Everybody knows that."

The gypsy seized my arm, quiet forcefully, causing me to growl at her. She locked her gaze with mine, not flinching despite my snarl and willingness to take her arm off at the shoulder. With a deep breath and pull of her drink, she released my arm before continuing.

"No," she said with a remarkable calm given both the situation at hand and the amount of drink she had consumed. "It's really bad."

And she proceeded to tell me just how bad really bad was. How much more toxins and other wastes were being drawn out by his dialysis. The way this left him-quite literally, in some ways-drained. She told me how the scent of sickness and decomposition I would sometimes get from him, a scent so strong I'd sometimes chain-smoke so I could handle the presence of my angelic friend, was the scent of him dying before our eyes.

She told me because, back then, I was dancing with the dead for money, triaging potential organ and tissue donors. By virtue of that, I could understand. She told me because Jibril was my friend and I admired him. She told me because she figured with my reptile zen, I could handle the news.

"Fucking perfect," I growled, downing that shot of whiskey like it was water, there was neither taste nor burn to it, which, when it comes to whiskey, is a rather sad state of affairs.

Perhaps it was because of the particularly craptastic day I'd already had, along with these new scraps of news, but zen was not something I really felt. In fact, I was off my fresh-fried lobster for the next few days following that day and night. I phoned the one female who preferred to sleep or watch the telly over having anything to do with me. That ghost of an ironic acquaintance, which our communications seemed to be more out of habit. I told her what the gypsy said about the archangel with a broken wing, my concern, and about the whisper in my ghost, telling me he'd either scrape his way out of it, or he'd not make it to that autumn, but I did not know which yet.

That female all but blew it off as if the gypsy was overreacting. Sure, it was possible. Everyone I've ever known has overreacted at least once. Whether that's an aspect of the human affliction or I've just had the strange luck to be related to and acquainted with a bunch of neurotic mutherfuckers is conjecture. And, in the context of this tale, was not appropriate.

So, I didn't really speak in much detail of my concern or the whispers in my ghost regarding Jibril to that female again. She didn't seem to care. It took me a little over another two months to finally work up the escape velocity from that situation, and the aftershocks lasted at least another half a year. But that is another story.

"He's going through tests to be put on the recipient's list,"the bruja of my acquaintance, who knew the archangel far longer than the gypsy and I combined, said in an effort to comfort me on the matter. "The results will tell how he's really doing, but he says he feels good enough to try and beat the strict lines of determination."

The whisper in my ghost persisted. By virtue of what I was doing for money, I found myself having nightmares. I wanted to find him a kidney to help him. I wanted him to prove my whisper wrong.

I suppose, in a way he did. He did make it to and through that autumn, finally venturing into the bardo on the very last day of that winter, a year and ten days from when the gypsy told me how bad really bad was. In a lot of ways, that's hardly a comfort. Dead is still dead, and you don't always get to walk away from that.

I'm not sure when exactly it was that I saw Jibril again. All I know is that is was an occasion. We embraced and I did my best not to notice the scent of sickness and decomposition that emanated from him. When we parted ways, he embraced me tightly again.

"Goodbye, my friend," he said to me.

For those of you playing the home game, you probably already know my feelings toward the term goodbye. But, for those you just tuning in, I am fine with bye, farewell, until next time, see you later or anything other than goodbye. Goodbye is what you say when it's the last time. Done and over. When you'll not speak to someone ever again. Forever.

And yet, Jibril, the archangel with a broken wing, that fucking moth, would say goodbye to me and I would see him again. There would be a next time. It was always an occasion. I would let him get away with saying goodbye to me, noticing, but not offended, not really understanding why until almost a half a year after he died.

For the next year, I didn't see him nearly as much as I would have liked, but ain't that always the way? The gypsy would sometimes relate to me stories of his condition. Sometimes, she would vent, if not lash out about the circumstance altogether. I can't say I really appreciated when I would sometimes find myself catching her frustration over what was happening to our beautiful friend, but I also knew why she did it. So it goes.

The last time I saw Jibril was at a redneck Marti Gras party tossed by a bike tribe of our mutual acquaintance on the eve of Losar for the year of the pig. As with any time I saw him, it was a pleasant surprise. It was an occasion.

Try as I might, I cannot recall the exact things we talked about that over cocktails and cigarettes. It's true, that night was the first time since I had stopped finding it okay to drink-often to excess-frequently that I allowed myself to get a little intoxicated. But that would be an excuse, and besides, there are those who say my memory can make an elephant cry. Be that as it may, there are limits. I just know we spoke of politics and le cinema and comic books and philosophy and religion and all the other things we'd talk about over cigarettes and either coffee or cocktails. The details of those conversations, however, is but mist over the memory of that last time.

When we prepared to part ways, I tried to get him to come with me to see the Losar celebrations in Little Asia, once the sun rose. It was something I felt was important and we could both enjoy. He declined, lighting a fag in that suave Jibril way of his.

"I probably will be going to bed when you're leaving to do that," he said. "And that's your thing."

He then reached over to give me a hug. The same tight embrace we'd been exchanging for nearly a year. That one that developed after I was told how bad really bad was.

"Goodbye, my friend," he said to me.

It was the last time I'd ever hear him say that...

A month and two days later, I was in the Confederacy. Along with my siblings, I had just helped my father put his mother in the ground. We were all eager to return to that place named for the Spanish way of saying colorful after having to deal the southern relatives and the blood drama there. I had just gotten off the phone with Sabina, when my phone rang again.

I answered with a cheerful lilt to my voice. It wasn't Sabina, but Madam Lung. Her voice was shaky.

"I'm sorry...I know you're busy with your family stuff..." she tried to say. "I don't know how to tell you this..."

And then, the words fell out amidst a flood of dragon's tears. Jibril was gone. Just like that.

All fall down...

Six months later, I was at a party with Madam Lung and Sabina. The dragon and I were standing out on the terrace talking, and the archangel with a broken wing came up in conversation. It seemed that happened a fair amount back then. The wounds were still oh so fresh and we are all oh so messy. I started talking about my viewpoint on the term goodbye and how he could somehow get away with saying it to me without offense, when the understanding finally hit me like a two-ton heavy thing.

"Muthafuka!" I hissed. "He knew there might not be a next time. It was always the last time!"

Fucking perfect...

And I was moody the rest of that night and about half of the next day. Because, of course, that was going to make everything better. That was going to bring my friend back from the dead, in perfect health, no less.

I'm sure one can imagine my dismay and further moodiness, frustration, and melancholy when that didn't happen...

In the last three years, I have said goodbye to that fucking moth more times than I can count without removing clothing. After all, goodbye means done and over. Forever and the last time. I know this, feeling it down to marrow.

But perhaps that's why I tell these stories; because he was the exception that disproved the rule. Goodbye always meant the last time, but there seemed to be a fair amount of next times. Maybe I want to keep thinking Jibril has another next time left, despite the evidence to the country.