In constant reflection of life and death, the drifter rides the line called Nostalgia. Perfect strangers- art is life and life is death. We can leave these images and sounds of our times on native grounds. Talk into the tin can and maybe someone will hear it. Pick up a seashell and listen. Carry remembrance for the entire family with varying abilities of record. See you Salish seas.

Many tales have been told before. Over and over again in different forms. This isn’t very different. Stories as old as the sempervirens we find ourselves amongst. Landmarks. The writing is right there on the wall. Carved in the bark, sprayed on the slab. Can you see it? The blue heron sees the loon and the shadows get darker this afternoon. When we have a chance to look back, meet me for happy hour at Blooms. On you.

As an interlude and a breathe worth taking, we stop and reflect.

Getting closer to the end of this digest, How deep must we go in search of the one thing that can blow your top off. I found Katrano. And now I’ve gone deep. The depth has taken me to hard frequencies and now I try to translate? Dwiz drops a column on the current state. A report after the storms. I found warmth in the smell of leather in the back seat of a Cadillac. They smelled different in the 70’s and 80’s you know. That was comfort for a young J. I parked my ‘77 parallel in more than one parallel.

Take more than a minute to ponder.

We pick up here, in the midst of heavy thunder over Katrano point. This is when all the ideas stir and ‘images begin to ooze like confessions’ Weather hard on the skin and memories that linger reach out from within. I go back to these dark rooms and try to find the pieces. I find some and then many others. I then put some boom to it. These carry in heavy frequencies- in the chest that make you forget. I used to forget while hitting corners in my steel and white walls. Tires so clean, they’d make the tunnel walls sing... creamy chevs dripping with chrome. We dive deeper into these Pacific origins. Caught in the eye of the storm.

You even taste like the sun in the jungle of love. What do these words even mean? Those that know have seen me at home in the Love jungle- With all it's unpredictable weather. We breathe well here but at times it can be suffocating. Sometimes we enjoy the feelings of our roots and find comfort in the shadows of our limbs. This brings me to introduce Caliban the Collector. An inspiration to a man called Leonard Lake. who, in our true history, went on to do some horrible things that struck too close to home. These characters exist on a few sides of said spectrums. Some in books and some here on Earth. There are a lot of us in this Love Jungle. Some of us have luck on our side and some have an uncanny ability to predict a win or tragic losses. The meaning in these meetings is of mind, heart and soul. I tell these stories that (for me) are hard to be told.

With all of life's gambles, I hesitate to bet it all on one horse- tempting as it may be. We only have so many times around these tracks, to get dirty. Get in the mud. Before we are considered lame. My time may have come and gone but I went with Hoodwink for the win because I know you can never have Too many tomatoes. Tipped off by a great gypsy I may add...

I was drifting before you. With so many meanings, these still ring true.

Caliban hunts with the ferocity of a bad memory that can’t be forgotten.

When any comfort sets in, he reminds you.

Like grief, coming in waves as it does. 

It’s rude to take photographs of people without consent. Consent. Now there’s a word.