About me.
I have come to fear something unshakable: we will never Understand one another. None of us. Not strangers and not our Loved Ones. Ever. We instead come to surmise the sum of our actions and what we perceive. For that’s all we can really do - perceive. Henry once floored me with “no one can ever love you for who you really are because you’ll never even know who you really are.” He’s right. We preceive even ourselves. Which tragically isn’t the same as Understanding. This story is a account of what I perceived. And you are perceiving that. And just there: a flash of the one of our deepest human sorrows - our distance from True Understand.
But this condition I believe can be trancended and that True Understanding comes to us in moments of insight and in blasts of unfaltering Intuition. By Visions and acts of Power. By Love and drugs and Art. Moments which we have all had. Hopefully we capitalize on these and so direct the course of our lives so as to not race through Life careening wildly through the Universe. Though in my case I worry that this is just how my Life became so. By trusting my Intuition and making otherwise not so sane choices. But by listening to that call I have become spun out and into this World not unlike like a mad pinball.
My sister Lylla who lives in New York City said to me “I tell people that you’re a Nomad. ‘What’s your brother do?’ I say Timmy’s a Nomad.” And the hint of good for you in her voice made me glad. Years later I would read that a Nomad is simply one whose Home is Everywhere. I must say that this fits nicely over things for me. Though I have always and more deeply thought I was a Gypsy. Driven from a land that has ceased to exist my people scattered hoplessly across the Earth. Wandering in Search of Them (some of Whom I’ve Found). Or Something. For a new land - a Terrirory for my Spirit.
Anyway.

The decision to return East is never really officially made. I just know it’s time. The summer is past and the days are cool and autumn golden. Sparse maples dot the redwoods in bursts of rare yellow. Early purple twilight. But I long for the fuller spectrum of fall in New England. It will begin to rain in a few weeks here and fall solid until April. Mud and mold and washouts. This I cannot handle. Rain is fine and beautiful at the right times but not for six months straight. It would break me.

Ahead I can feel stirring the Adventure of Crossing America again and again with two road Companions: Mr. Don Parker and Dr. Boots. Through the brown and red Indian Summer of the southwest and across to the Panhandle. Then straight through and up to Autumn with my Bear Claw and my Cat and my Story to tell.

But not just yet.