Traveling again, it feels good to be in the Land Cruiser,
heading north. It has been fifteen years since I was last this way.

Talked with Missy when I stopped for the night in
Redding. Had found her Dads number in the phone directory and
called. He in turn called Missy and she called my room. "Michael
how have you been?". Hearing her voice, picturing her face, her
walk. Smelling her..`Taboo'..that was it, listening to `Stairway to
heaven' and `Afternoon Delight'. Overwhelmed in memories long since
past. "Good, How about you?" I reply. I'm fine, I just had a baby,
number three, you married yet?" she asks. I tell her "No, still
looking" she laughs, "Right!!, twice for me". We talk a bit and
promise to stay in touch. Right!!,..Tom Wolfe said it first.

Weed, Ca. A night in jail for being underage with a
`bota' of white chablis. I wonder if they still load their burgers
with garlic as I drive by a truck stop at the outskirts of town.

Driving Hwy `97', "Good times, Bad times", being sent to
a fire, collecting hazard pay to stand guard at a gate keeping
`looky lous' away. U.S.F.S. hiring a cessna to take me back to my
home station.

Always dreamed I would come back get married, settle
down. Never thought it would be to see a friend before he dies.

Hauns the eccentric one. Walking off the stage during our
7th grade talent show, looking as you would expect Beethoven to
look if he was frustrated. Conversations that stretched far into
the night, `Castaneda', St. Luke, Black magic, white magic points
in between. Looking across the table and asking "Are you queer?",
after eighteen years only one thing to do, climb out on a rickety
old railroad bridge, get drunk and ask why.

Quitting my job, coming home bummed, Hauns suggest a
vacation. Off to San Francisco, dirty dishes and a turkey carcass
testimony of our haste.

The grin, the cock of the head that's not cocked, it
doesn't belong to the emaciated body that has stolen his walk.
Longing to ask the questions that I should be asking myself. "Tell
me please, what of life, death,.. and why". Quickly to work, I came
to help build not spend time in the mundane formalities of
greetings. The weight of the drywall, the rhythm of my hammer,
hiding in the familiarity of work.

Every part of the cottage that John and Hauns share,
shows a part of their own individual personalities, Hauns
analytical, John the artist. This new building is to be Johns
studio,. Hauns' monument to his existence.
Bunking down at night in the llama pen, one night on straw the next
needing the comfort only Motel 6 can provide. Dishearten in this
need, resolving to gain back that that is lost.

A flash in the pan, brief excursions with thought, "Damn
those rednecks", Hauns exclaims, "they always asks about tears,
mosquitoes and sweat". Hauns, I'm one of those rednecks and I
would like to know, why not from mosquitoes? Shit., a metal corner
has sliced into my knee blood is spattering everywhere, could use
a half dozen stitches but gauze and duct tape will do. Blood has a
look of weight, like mercury, but it doesn't weigh much and it
won't ball up and roll around your hand like mercury will. It just
dries up and turns black. My invincibility scattered in droplets on
the floor, what of Hauns and the insidious virus that has invaded
his blood, if he stood here bleeding like I, would he see mercury.
Yes,..the gist of it he would, nothing so profound as I would hope
for, finally an answer, One answer..still a long way to go.

This trip under the pretense of helping John and Hauns,
it's a chance to regroup, categorize thoughts that have no file.
Watching bats dart and dive at night, wake to Bentlly,(Johns dog)
trying to steal my shoes in the morning. Going for coffee, passing
by the school house, bicycles lined in the rack. Smiling at seeing
one purple and pink stingray standing on its kickstand, alone,away
from the others, unlocked.

Westside Shell three years of laughing and learning. Part
of a family, Bill, Carol and David their son. Dressed in a borrowed
suit and tie, prepared to `ride the goat' for my initiation into
the Elks. Bill's laugh comes from deep inside, he liked to laugh.

"Hi Carol, its Mike"

"Miguel!, Bill killed himself"

"Hi Carol, its Mike"

"Miguel!, David killed himself"

"Hi Carol, its Mike"

A simple veterans plaque leans against a tree. Bills ashes
scattered about, small pieces of bone and particles that resemble
nothing of the man. Sitting in the darkness trying to reach out,
calm the voices within, afraid that I might

Hauns is sitting under the pines looking across a large
meadow that borders the property. Today is not a good day for
Hauns. Thankful for the sheets of drywall before me. Glancing out
of the window occasionally, a crossed leg, maybe arms folded to his
chest, still the gaze is across the meadow. Freedom to dream,
think, achieve, why do our most revealing moments come when we are
imprisoned? Pain is good.. sorrow,love,loss, so rare are the
opportunities we have to experience and enjoy them. Hauns share
these thoughts of yours, I may not be strong enough to hold them,
let me be crushed by their weight. This vitality inside, its yours
take it, I don't need it to accomplish my deed.

John is laughing at me "Mike she's a hooker".
"No way she's too good looking". Sitting atop the TransAmerica
building, two guys out bumming around the city, 1979. I liked John
then, like him a lot more today. Eleven years he and Hauns have
been together.

Standing in his studio looking at his work seeing the
complexity of todays paintings verses past works. Maybe the
complexity I couldn't recognize then, do I now? Art has that
ability, to show what we need to see. Staring at a surrealistic
painting of Hauns, robust expressing all, yet nothing. A baseball
cap planted squarely on his head, a large red heart in the center
of the cap,.I AM..WHO KNOWS.. "I'm doing some sketches of Hauns",
John says, as he leafs though a pile and hands me a drawing of
Hauns reclining hands folded inertly on his chest. "I'm going to do
some more" John says, "kind of therapy of sorts". Realizing the
drawing I'm holding hides a disease that is now taking my childhood
friend. "I would like to send you some sketches, share what I'm
feeling", John says. Touched, but also not wanting to see that
much of John, drawing the pain, the love, the death of a mate.
Visualizing future sketches in stark contrast to Johns other works,
with their rich colors and sequential patterns. Inane features on
characters that please and delight. Bring on your lyrical drawings,
so I can cry too.

"Hi baby, I'm done, finished up this evening". "When are
you coming home?" she asks. "I'm going to leave in the morning,"
(three weeks in the blink of an eye). "Why don't you leave tonight,
I miss you"? "I want to get some rest,..( because I'm going to
jump off a rock face in the morning) I miss you too". "Well get
some sleep leave real early, okay". "Yes dear I will..( 298' no
landing area a long crawl out with broken bones) good night".

How is she going to feel getting a phone call from some
sheriff in Bodunk, Ore. "Do you know a Mike....there has been an
accident". Running back to the Land Cruiser a `pop' in my calf,
falling to the ground,.my jump..my jump..hey old man, couldn't you
have just written me a letter?

Hauns was one of my brother’s dearest and longest childhood friends. They grew up in a time when what he was was Not. Cool. Yet it tells you a lot about Mike that when Hauns came out as “queer” he did not abandon his friend or feel threatened or betrayed. Hauns was his friend and that was that. Mike, the unrepentent macho man, would be puzzled and a bit offended that anyone would expect anything different?

These conversations he had with Hauns we had too. Castaneda, spirituality, *something* more, there has to be *something* more. Now I'm old and cynical and I think nope, there isn't. What the fuck happened to that kid who called himself a seeker?

That last line, “hey old man” – another grim reaper reference. When you jump off really low things with a parachute for fun, he's your constant companion. Mike loved the imagery of having the reaper over your shoulder all day, every day just biding his time to wield the scythe. They were so close for so long, I'll bet he let him hold it first.