What Is Time But Interwoven Memories?

There was something about yesterday’s hike that lit a fire under our collective ass. Did you know that the queen and I share an ass? Spank one; we both feel it. It’s all about family, in the end(s).

Seriously; the queen went to do what she does best, and I began some outdoor projects I’d been putting off since depression. Depression is a unit of measurement; did you know that? Four hours later, I’d completed them all, and even stumbled over a few extras.

I truly miss sitting on my patio…

Well shit. Someone emptied an entire handgun in the street about twenty feet from where I sat. I hope no one was hurt. There's been so much loss and pain in this neighborhood as of late. I care, but I don't care enough to get up and look. It's Mad Max rules here. Mind yo biz.

City life. I didn’t even flinch, and that’s not a brag. Where was I?

I can barely smell the gunsmoke above my Asian anti-mosquito incense. Living so close to the Trinity River, the inner city mosquito swarms know no season or time. It’s nonstop swatting. Because of that, I began studying some old remedies created from Asian rice farmers. Water traps with a kiss of oil on top; things of that nature.

OCT Skeeters will smoke your weed and give you herpes. I must be smarter than the bug, therefore I must go Asian. White folks, regardless of geographical origin, will want to spray some stinky aresol shit on it for a quicker solution. That’s not me. I try to help the environment whenever I can, otherwise this whole hippie gig doesn’t work.

Also, the humans on my block are nose blind. It’s a choice, and a damned good one.

The Edison Bulbs come to life, giving off that County Fair vibe from childhood. Stoned, asleep on a parent’s shoulder; what’s the difference? That’s right. Fifty years. Because of indisputable mathematics.

Warm, summer air, barely pushed between the neighborhood trees, until it isn’t. The breeze collects its strength as the sun dips low on an otherwise cloudless day.

It’s just a different swing set, dude. That’s all it is. Time travel, long and painful, but instantaneous in the minds of those brave enough to seek the path.

Texas tickles the sunburn on the back of my neck, thanking me for giving her a chance this weekend. I walked her trails and I waded her rivers, smiling every moment. I did so with a wonderful partner who led most of the way, and stuffed me full of amazing food. Any moment now, she’s going to plop her tiny butt down next to me, lean into my sun-crisped shoulder, and tell me how she loved her weekend. We rarely fail to gush when one of us slam dunks something to break the monotony.

There’s a piece of me that wants to fetch the acoustic, but I have new neighbors I’ve not met. Perhaps they’re unworthy of my musical shenanigans. It’s hard to be a hippie fifty years after the fact. Someone must, though. That someone may as well be me.

I don’t recall if I’ve ever felt this peaceful before…

In this moment, I mean.

And then the new neighbors come home, breaking my concentration. Warring lesbians with a pet dog. That’s my initial guess. The details matter not; all I care for is privacy, quiet, and tolerance when it’s my turn to make a little noise. My vinyl collection grows weekly, and my speakers sound like they’re from the seventies. Appetite For Destruction? Zep IV? Back In Black? Yeah, Friday is jam day. If we can see eye to eye on that shit, then it’s copasetic.

My only red flag is that they’ve both glared my way a half dozen times in a few moments without speaking. I get it, and I’ve always gotten it. I look like the freaking enemy; a middle aged, bearded white dude. Maybe they didn’t see me sitting here? These bare legs are mighty blinding.

Holy Hannigan’s Whore-phans; when is this going to end? I can hear them discussing the “white dude sitting down there”, and find them lucky I’ll never refer to them as “those black chicks up there”. That’s not my thing. The door swings both ways, but some of us have the decency to knock first.

I took the initiative to break the ice because I accidentally clouded her out. That’s my last name as a verb. I apologized, and introduced myself with my street name lol. Damn, that’s hilarious. My street name. English is basically a second language most places I go, and it was easier for them to call me “Gonzo”. My UK lit agent called me that (RIP) and I never really grasped onto it until recently. I didn’t want to have Thompson conversations with book-smart chodes. Chodes with flashing lights who haven’t investigated the fifteen or so gunshots that rang out twenty minutes ago. Insert Joe Walsh anthem here.

Back to it. Concentrate. Breathe.

It’s been a beautiful night in my porch swing. The bug deterrent fizzles out, and I finish my evening’s allowance of crop. I spent the whole time deep in regression. Touching, remembering; I’m there. Places I’ve not been since. Memories grace my nostrils in the most realistic of ways. My nostrils? Rarely do memories occur there; that’s why some people marry the same chick twice.

I’d disappeared inside a target on Trinity at a particular moment in time which occurred around forty-five years ago. I hadn’t smelled that smell since the early eighties. A drawer in a kitchen, filled halfway with whatever needed to go there throughout decades. You know the drawer I mean. It always had that unique smell house to house, combination to combination. That smell belonged to me.

This is why I worried when I began. I worried I’d be successful, and with great power comes great responsibility. Maybe it was a fluke, but I doubt it. I’ve been successful twice now. What if I get lost?

Besides, I just realized my wife had her head on my shoulder. Come to find out, she had a great weekend. She does that sometimes.

I’ll try again, but it’s more unsettling than I imagined. Third time’s a charm?