Day One-Hundred-Ninety-Nine, Garfunkel

Find me on the morning of the very next day, sitting in someone's kitchen.  The good Masseys, if their name must be known.  They are Stac and Lee.  And they are off; they had business to do.  I am alone with the dogs.  One ugly, one thoughtful.  Both with good hearts.  Both of an impressive size.

Yesterday seems miles away.  It has faded some in my mind.  Diluted by vodka and a good many beers.  I have some memory of wine.  The Masseys ain't Baptists.  They are on a Path.  You might call it the Road to Perdition.  But you would be wrong.  Lighten up some.  We were having a party.

In celebration of what I don't know.  Let's call it Life in general.  And all that is good.  And friendship.  And fun.  Throw in some philosophy.  And a gentle understanding of those dark forces who don't dig what we're all about.

We forgive you.  Forgive us.

I do believe my innards have suffered some.  I'm old for this revelry.  But I have all but recovered.  I'll be better still if I get around to walking.

The Masseys were fine.  I'd be inclined to resent them if they weren't so awfully kind.  Newlyweds, more or less.  They are young and disgustingly deep in Love.  And have got to be the most attractive couple that I have ever seen.  Movie star good looks.  The both of them.  And yet they turned out OK.  God knows what I'd do with that kind of burden.  I'd wind up hurting myself.

They found me through Ross, a friend of mine.  I met him in India.  He's a prophet, a scholar, a philosopher priest.  He is mad as a hatter.  The good ones all are, in my opinion.  I must cultivate that side of my nature.

And he has our own best interest at heart.  That's one way to piss them off.  The Powers that Be.  They keep locking him up.  Ross keeps getting free.  He's a Seeker of Truth.  He's made a science of it.  No doubt he's being watched.

As am I, I hope.  I thrive on attention.  It makes me feel less alone.  We are, after all, in this together.  Christ made some pretty good points.  About Love and Forgiveness and That Sort of Thing.  I won't paraphrase that good man.  It's all written down somewhere or other.  You can read it yourself if you'd like.

Jesus was a walker, you know.  So was Martin Luther King.  And good Gandhi.  And Art Garfunkel.  Only Art had proper shoes.  And he was the only one they didn't lock up, the only one they didn't murder.  Not yet, at any rate.  He really ought to keep his head down.

They were all after the Beautiful.  Call it Truth if you must.  And I'm not sure you have to walk to find it.  I only hope walking helps.  But I'm on my slow crawl through Florida.  I'm reaching the end of the line.  If All Will Be Revealed to Me, I wish it would hurry up.

I guess I have learned a couple of things. There is Power in Positive Thought.  And people aren't bad, most of them.  I'd suspected them for the longest time. 

I've learned Fear is something you've got to get used to.  It's not going away.  Most people deny it or call it mere worry.  But we're all terrified.  Except Friar Dennis.  He's an odd case.  He is a walker too.

We dropped him at work yesterday morning.  Kind Ronné drove me down the road.  To the far side of Pace, Florida where they'd picked me up some days before.  So I could pick up where I had left off.  It felt good to be walking again.  In the suburbs this time.  Down that same old road which defines modern America. 

It is the walking I was long accustomed to, on sidewalks and through parking lots.  Suburban walking.  Vastly different than what ai found in the Big Sky State.  I'm not sure I prefer one to the other.  Time goes by faster in town.  I walked a good dozen miles or so without noticing the effort.  There was plenty to look at.  Traffic to dodge.  It takes you out of yourself.  Sometimes in Montana there was nothing to see but the emptiness of my own heart.

It worried me though.  I was starting to wonder if Florida was not just one big suburb.  But past the surprisingly charming town of Milton I found myself in the country again.  With a hiking trail running alongside the road.  It is nice to get out of the gutter.  It is the original Spanish Trail, maybe the first highway in America.  Ponce de León no doubt walked on it, at least until he got old.

It took me right to the Massey's house.  Call it a coincidence if you want.  They only stumbled across my blog a very few days ago.  And extended to me their warm invitation.  They fed me and liquored me up.  Bless their gentle hearts.  It is well past noon and damned if I'm not still here.

I'll get back on the road eventually.  Probably.  I'm almost certain. 

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