Going, going, gone

Quote of the Day

My numbers are going up, and theirs are going down. But if I have a million and half people listening to me, that's still just one-tenth of Rush's audience."
Like most people in and around radio, Franken credited Limbaugh's personal talents for creating the genre of conservative talk radio in the late 1980s and dominating it ever since.

"He's very talented, I'll give him that," Franken said. "He's a good storyteller. He's good at framing an issue, whether honest or not. ... He's very good at kicking dust up in the air so you don't see the crap on the ground. It's an evil talent. But he's talented."

Al Franken, in a Steven Thomma interview for Knight Ridder, 10/08/05

Today's Blog:

I sit here in the stillness of my last night, or rather the last early morning. The last instance when I can still call this house mine. A sliver of a crescent moon has caressed the shoulders of Saddle Mountain, while also chasing some star I can not name to the west. The shrill Coyotes have silenced themselves. Already most of the squawking geese lingering down on the river have long ago departed south for the winter. Fog is forming and dawn is emerging, burying the Selkirk Mountains in mist and defining them in a lightness of being that only they can see. I know those peaks are out there, even if I can not attend them. Just as I know many other figurative and literal things are out there. Waiting to take form, although even at this moment, I still can not recognize or see them.

I also know the world is on inhale. Expecting and tense and silent.

While I am on exhale, nearly spent.

Under yesterday's sun, autumn peak color waned and as I loaded the last boxes of stuff, I could not really think about much-other than the sense that time has sure taken its time to get me to this day, and that like everything else about this home, it's been a ride.
Rain moved in after midnight and as I listened to the cadence on the metal roof, I was not settled, or sleeping, but watching and waiting and wondering.
My friend and former truck driver Shelley called earlier in the evening and asked, "So have you cried yet?"

"Not really" I replied.

Shelley was a big part of my life during the dream time when Dallas and I first found the property. I got lost in that moment for a minute, especially as I revisited so much surreal history linking the stories of so many people who'd intersected the history of this home.
Soft landing into the midst of her words, I truly felt all the drama, wonder, love, and sadness one home can contain. I thought of the two guest books that have been filled by visitors reflecting these sentiments.

Now the house is empty and I'm relegated to lying on the floor as my beds are already in storage. The guest books are packed away, while I am wrapped in a comforter. I think again about this place, my soon to be former home. Shelley's words echo, "Have you cried yet?"

Nope. Still ain't. Not really.

These walls, my God IF they could only talk. Over the last decade, they hold this visible invisible story. Countless men and women have fallen in love here. Or thought they fell in love, but really it was just bad gas or a by product of my frightening cooking or a combination of the intoxicating effects of mountains and sky.

Artists, photographers, journalists, athletes, and working class men and women have played, rested, and communed here. Always the river, the mountains, and the sky have beckoned, demanding attention and respect. People felt things under the influence of God's country that they might not normally feel back in their normal urban places. I learned to take everything with a grain of salt, or better yet, mercy. The grace I've known has humbled me, because everything I've been offered, came to me under the same conditions.

Let the world in, love, and let go. The letting go part is not an easy or instant lesson. That last bit took real work. It still does.

I myself have fallen hard on a couple of occasions while living under this roof. I've loved with all I had. When I first dreamed of "here" I never thought I'd be single again. Now a decade later, I wonder about the last best thing, the sudden appearance of anything resembling heart song, and the truest bliss of the transformation of for keeps. I will these thoughts to the house and she embraces all the history and the disillusionment and hope, sending it back out to me to sort out all over again. She never was one for providing answers, but rather seemed content to merely shelter the experience, keeping all who knew her warm and dry in the process.

The forests of the mountains surrounding my home know all these secrets; these trails of introspection, retrospection, and hesitation. The forest for the trees knows the impossible dreams and the likely ones, and the difference between each. Even if I am still learning, still finding my way, and still picking through the fallout.

But to really answer Shelley's question, I don't think I will cry. I told Shelley that crying was mostly a chick thing. But she said I would anyhow because I'm built like that, yet I think in truth, I'm already cried out.

This house has already bore too many tears. Of joy. And also of sadness.

Tears brought on by the stinging shock of corruption, betrayal and dishonesty. That kind of disillusionment that once seemed the stuff of movies, an X Files episode or a psychotic thriller, are scripts I now know up front and personal.

Two men who at one time slept under this roof, eventually murdered another. My partner of nearly a decade, "Dallas" turned out to be the definition of wannabe, fleeing and hijacking the next available heart just as his cover was blown here. I've sat in this house and answered questions or shrugged at the unanswerable ones posed from Sheriffs, FBI, and Social Security Agents. Even now strange details emerge about my former so called life, to the point where it's no longer recognizable, and I've accepted "I don't know" more often than not upon departure of the last special agent whatever.

Yesterday, in the midst of remembering "I don't know", a bald eagle flew west tracing the cliff, chasing the river's progress toward change. As bald eagles go, this one was larger than most, and barely moving his giant wings, the bird crested the wind and flew right over the house. Over the last decade, there have been many times when the eagles have simply circled above this special place, as if blessing us. This time the bird did not circle but flew onward with direction and purpose toward an unknown destination. I felt as if this was a sign. I should take up my own wings and follow toward a similar unknown destination.

Although the house I've lived in for these last ten years is now owned by others, with their own set of dreams, I remain committed to the Selkirks, to Pend Oreille County, and to the very ideals that define High Mountain Ranch. I still hold beautiful land here, even if it does not support a dwelling. The ranch is a physical place, but it has also always been much more. It is also an idea believing that whether gay or straight our sexuality is not a defining ending point, but rather it is a begining to a fully integrated and healthy relationship to the planet, each other, and our creator. The ranch, regardless of location, lives on.

I still celebrate these views, and hold unbridled optimism pointing toward the possibility of tomorrow. Dreams are often nourished by memories, fed by the richness of previous experience, and it is that sense that propels me forward.

In remembering all the faces of those who have stayed for awhile, I find serenity. I see something beyond this departure, something that soothes the haunting some suggest I should exorcize. Many of those who took refuge here are themselves already gone, but their voices remain-Laughing, loving and willing life forward. My grandparents, my relatives, and my friends, those who have gone before, left a part of themselves here. Visitors feel that presence and they speak about the energy of this home.

As I turn the key for one last time, in order to honor them, the horizon of possibility is where I set my hopes. I know deep down that we all must chase the eagles, no matter what comes our way.

In trying to communicate this dance to the people who are closest to me, those who knew of my decision, I've had to battle their resistance to my decision to sell the house. My mom remarked earlier in the summer that it seemed to her that the house did not want to release me. That maybe I wasn't meant to sell. Then mom went where she always goes and wondered if there were demons here.

I wonder about that energy, what I can not see. I know of no demons that linger.

But I do suggest this elusive energy that is so often cited in my guest books is the by product of the richest combination of humanity. I've entertained Witches and Priests, Monks and Atheists, Buddhists and Hindus, Muslims and Christians, Indians and Nomads. Cowboys and Truckers. PHD'd and uneducated. I suppose all are infidels by some definition. I also suppose all are found by another.

I cling to the being found part, and if nothing else, this home seems founded on that premise. That this place would provide refuge, joy and laughter not only defined here, but became a starting point for many. That the diversity of so many souls would come here and find rest, inspiration and rejuvenation, and that they left here with a sense of what could be rather than what is, reassures me.

I leave here with that same sense. Still thinking about what could be, rather that what is, or even better, what was. That is why I can not cry and there are no tears tonight. That is why only joy should remain.

Written on October 13th, 2005

A Note to visitors to the site: I will be posting hit and miss for the next couple weeks as my computer did not handle the move as well as we would have hoped. I will hopefully catch up on email over the next several days when I get a chance to log on at Kinko's. Thanks for your patience... Timbo