Death of a...

Death of a Sails Man

 

(A little background before you read the final letter of this series)

Inhabitants from the region of origin in the religion of gin-making may say there is more than one way to gait a gate and rig a trig, all in the mix of antics portrayed in the eye from the ending of living exteriors and linear happenings.  But who’s watching?  Where is the system of checks and balances?  What happens when the acts of tax relax and the usual backtrack loses slack?  Will we know or does it just end, do we end? 

Maybe we’re like water.  When in the womb we are like rain, creating bodies of water, and when we grow until adulthood, we are the oceans full of life.  After growth we slowly evaporate into nothing as we age.  When we die, it starts all over when we condensate until returning to liquid form.  This is one example of the profound philosophies held by a true American, Anoki Chowilawu.

I met this bibulous Nez Perce a few years back when hiking among the trees of the Targhee National Forest.  He taught me how to appreciate the earth and I taught him how to do the Truffle Shuffle.  He told me stories of his ancestors and I told him drinking stories from college.  He gave me advice on how to succeed in business without being corrupt and I told him how to play the wooden Pandura.  Over the three weeks I visited Anoki Chowilawu and his three siblings I became wiser to the meaning of why I was put on this earth and now I belive I can live a long and satisfying life full of adventure and inadvertent self-acclimation.  Before I left he gave me his mobile number and the bark from a Dropmore Linden and told me to rub it on my left shoulder blade every day, after I take a shower; so the good earth is with me throughout the day.  Anoki claims this will remind me of what’s important when facing a difficult decision or situation anytime in life.  My body will feel the earth as my mind looks for answers.  Unfortunately I lost the bark a week later when I forgot it at the I-80 truck stop in Iowa.  Anoki Chowilawu would be proud to know that I have replaced the Dropmore Linden bark with a slab of peanut brittle that I found under the couch at my friend Andrew Nesbitt's apartment in Hermosa Beach, after a yuletide get-together.  The brittle has dwindled down to that of a corn chip holding a solitary legume.  He would be proud, if he were alive.

 

This is a letter I wrote to be placed on his leather-bound urn:

 

Anoki

You crazy son of a bitch!  What possessed you to start learning how to swim at such an old age?  I remember learning all the ways this earth has blessed you and improved your well-being; but throughout the time of our cohesive stint you refused to disperse any accolades toward water.  I found it odd but let it be.  Then your sister, Etenia, told me about your fear of the wet stuff.  You sold me on geology, but only dug in briefly to water-related sciences, like ratamology, hesitant to go into any detail.  Then I hear you are going to visit your ancestors’ burial sites on the coast of Washington.  I figured their sites were far enough from water, where there wouldn’t be any danger.  It turns out they are buried on Crane Island (part of the San Juan Islands).

My admiration for you became deep-rooted due to your knowledge on practically everything.  From your studies on gastric Herring communication to the technical developments in fringe science, you were my Guru.  This is why I ask the question - why the heck did you feel compelled to learn about Shear Stress Transport in a maritime setting when I know everyone you know knows you don’t know not a damn-damn thing at all about swimming?

I suppose even you can’t answer this since you’re dead; but maybe one day we’ll meet again, perhaps in the condensation stage of our life cycle.

Your Kus Hama,

Stephen

 

P.S. – I’ve been seeing Etenia, I hope you don’t mind.

Twenty Twenty Twenty Four Hours...

Twenty Twenty Twenty Four Hours to Go, I Wanna Be Sedated (But only by Dr. Trevor Pitsch)

To the most illustrious patron of the Bellingham community and my brother:

Before you implore your lore and think it’s a chore I pour my poor core more before the yore of twenty-four is wore or tore do not fret for the rest of this ode, I am told, will not rhyme this time.

I write to you with this letter for many reasons known and unknown.  I could count them all for you but instead I will explain the power that lies in twenty-four and why it is the magic number… for you.  Don’t share it.

The greatest lead-off hitter once told me a story of how he met Jimmy Wynn in the hallway of a hotel floor that wasn’t there, for it was in Canton.  They discussed a recent prohibition to the Congress about conducting the right to vote in a federal election on payment of poll tax.  The conversation then lead to their thoughts of Anwar Sedat winning the Nobel Peace Prize while they each drank a silo over a game of backgammon.  Wynn won, scoring all the points.  He claimed it was as inspirational as the first Olympics in France.  Although he had not been born at the time, footage was on projected film found in his grandmother’s basement.  His grandmother lived along an interstate highway, which routed drivers between Tennessee and Illinois.  Her love for these particular Olympics originated from the French saying (translated into English), “Shame upon him think evil upon it” which was written by the knights who were part of the Order of the Garter.  Their shields were made of iron until a young maiden named Corrandine turned them into pure gold.  They were successful in their competitions and battles, much like the Montreal Canadians in hockey or Willie Mays in baseball.  Wynn and Henderson’s friendship stemmed from this night and although their paths did not cross again until all the cycles in a Chinese solar year were up, they kept in touch.  The two discussed anesthesiology, why 2^3q is so important, and their favorite Sutherland television show.  They would even quiz each other on foreign languages in western Africa and the Greek alphabet.  One conversation lasted literally all hours of the day.  The next time they plan to meet is in this month, on a day known for being the smallest with exactly eight divisions.  What does this unusual relationship have to do with you?

Nothing… except for the number 24, and nothing more.

Congratulations on graduating 24^th grade, putting up with me for 24 weeks last year… and happy birthday, 24 days after mine!

 

Your applauding brother, Stephen

Vous Deux Etes...

Vous Deux Etes L'avenir de Beaute

A wedding letter written for Kim and Brent Krueger

Not being sure of what I could possibly write in a wedding card for one of the most illustrious people I’ve ever known, I called up my friend, Edith Piaf.  Unfortunately her translator is deathly ill this day, so my interpretation of her inspiring words may be a bit skewed.  As she sang to me, these words came to mind:

I would go to the end of the world

I would make dye in fair-haired woman

If you asked me for it

I would go to take down the moon

I would go to steal destiny

If you asked me for it 

She actually went on for another ten minutes, until I interrupted her with a wail from Tino Rossi, and she quieted.  But the point was made.  Even an old French singer who’s dead can easily express the indescribable impact you have on every life you touch.  So, it is "with deepest pride and greatest pleasure" that I witness the day you commit to someone who is truly lucky enough to spend the rest of their life with someone who deserves whole-hearted love from every person in this world, even the French.  And Brent, since this is a card for both of you… way to go!

I look forward to hearing your "l’hymne a l’amour" over the next several years!

Vous deux etes l’avenir de beaute