Sooner or later people bound by proximity are going to choke one another to death. Well, maybe not. But nerves get grated, toes get stepped on and eggshells get lain. Nobody's fault this. Happens to families and lovers alike. And I in my deep brooding heart am far from exception.

One hot July morning I crawled from the tent and could hear Don and Kate chattering away inside. These two had a head start on me by hours and quarts of dark java. I open the door and there was a nimbus of haze and the loud gutteral sound of morning human speak ouside my dense and yet sleeping skull. The sound directed toward me not registering as words. Thrust me a cup. Room’s a little too small this morning. Groan. And let's face it, it ain't my room. Like a bad clutch I just can't engage. Their talk makes no sense to me because I am still in my head. No place to hide. Must escape.

At the excuse of going to the store I make a a break for my car and down the driveway. Then growl the three miles or so to the dirt pulloff and down to the swimming hole. Jam my sneakers on and damn the joe. Must walk my brain awake. I require space from time to time as many do. Some more than others. And for sure what chafes me at times isn't my lack of space - but my inability to provide others with it especially from me.

The blue river and indifferent sunshine doesn't care. Trudge down river for a while. Today threatens to be hot. Morning sun cooks me pink and to a light foul stench. I smell onion and garlic flavored from no shower. Scrub my greasy head in the icy blue. Instant headache but I feel better. There's a path into the wood and straight up that steep ass hill. A cliff almost. Up into the jungle.

The loving green wood of New England with it's gentle brown carpet of maple leaves and baby soft grasses is no kissing cousin to this place. Ferns in starry masses are sharp like plastic. Small green leaves fall and dry to brown shards sharp as glass. Beneath, the grey crusty earth crumbles under and steals my footing. What a steep godamn hill. Sweat beads and forms clumps in the dust on my face. Trail vanishes. Just sharp leaved bushes and more hill. Screw it. My irritation has been replaced by scratches and cuts across my legs and bared arms.

Breathless and pumping out heat like a furnace I reach the top leaning on both knees. Flat plateau of forest like a secret world. No paths no trash no sign of humans at all. None as stupid as myself to climb so high. Just giant trees and gnarled roots and short underbrush. Up ahead there is a sweet clearing and a cliff. Just over the edge you can see the hundred foot or so drop to the green blue water. I am actually above my old campsite. It's just over there. I hear a clicking sound behind me.

A small object zips past me and thumps into a fallen and leaning tree. A baby bird. It's that time of year. What is that? White fuzzball with peircing huge eyes. My God a Hawk. No an Eagle. Didn’t know they had Eagles up here. I reach to pick her up she click click click's at me wide mouthed. No Eagle this baby is an Owl. The smallest Owl I have ever seen which is a few anyway. All white fuzz and sun yellow retinas. Round black pupils she clicks at me questioningly. I wrap her gently in my t-shirt like a baby bundled up for snow. "My owl" I say to her laughing. The childlike urge to keep her is irresistable. She is after all too small to fly and aw hell with it. I’ll spoil her. Must head back.

Full ahead down that treacherous hill. Bird in hand and heat and flesh slicing plants no matter. Just lean forward and crash through the bushes for balance. I bleed but never stumble. Miraculous. Then up river to the car. All the while and impervious to the ride the Owl stares at me.

Three miles in ten seconds. Up the driveway in a cloud of dust. Kate is looking concerned from within. What now she wonders? I burst into the kitchen beaming. Set my bundle on the bar. Don in the john. "What is that?" she has caught my smile like a virus. "Owl." I say unwrapping the baby. The Owl clicks at Kate and teeters back and forth for fuzzy footing in the T shirt. Kate shreiks like a tickled banshee. “The hell’s goin on out there?” pipes Don from the toilet. "Don't" I tell her "surprise." "Can I?" she asks hypnotized and reaching for the bird. "Sure. She's great." we can't stop giggling. Kate lovingly scoops up the fuzzy critter and gently brings it to her lips. Kisses it on the forehead. The Owl looks around the room unconcerned. Eyelids at half mast like she is just waking from a dream. "God-damn!" Kate squeals. "Hot buttered owl!" Sets her back down. Don comes out of the head. "Ok, what is it?!" he grins. Show him. Gape jawed he stands there. "My God Timothy!” he’s floored. “What're you gonna do with it?" "Raise it. Feed it. Her.” "Feed her what man?" still gawking. "I dunno. Sardines maybe." And sardines it is. A quick run to the store for a tin (packed in spring water) and some cheese for me. We three stand circled around the bar as our new family member turns her head an astonishing three sixty. Checking out our digs not to mention three tiny lions. I pinch a small chunk of sardine between two chopsticks and show her. No interest. Show her again and while she is looking on I eat them myself. Mmm, look. I have her attention. Try again. She takes, eats and swallows dramatically the little hunk of fish to our glee. The hard morning has turned around. "What’ll you call her?" Kathryn asks smooching her head. "Zin I think." The stupidity of this makes itself evident (and is then redeemed) later. "Zin!" Kate pipes. "Zin the godamned hot buttered owl!" We are all charged. I hold Zin and put her on this shoulder then that one. I would become almost oblivious to wearing her endless poop. Put her high on the bookshelf which she seems to like. Nice vantage point and cat free. We would learn later she is a Northern Pygmy Owl and will not get any bigger upon maturation. Like a toy. Gregory shows up in the golden afternoon. He has worked in Zoo's before and toiled with and tamed all variety of exotic creature. Including (to some extent) our Kathryn. He likes the Owl but is every so slightly skeptical. "It's a lot of work you know," he informs. "if for some reason she doesn't make it," he concludes. He is right. When I was five my Father while fishing had caught a duckling that followed his bobber back to our canoe. We took it home and I learned to my delight the duckling would follow you around like you were mama. My sisters and I were skipping in figure eights and it followed along precicely when it fell over during a turn and became instantly still. Dead as a doornob. I thought I was in for but my Dad explained simply that it happens. Or some such, I was five. But whatever he said wasn’t about death but about Nature being Mysterious. Leaving me forever forth with the notion that Nature takes her care of her own how and when She see’s fit. Which may have been what he said. And it didn’t grieve me then. Though when I was seven I found two tall and never before seen blue jay babies and kept them for three days. Made them a nest of hay and when I found them dead I wept over them unconsolably for quite some time. The song on the radio haunted me for years. We slept that night we three (Don, Zin and Tim) in the little cave tent. My Owl perched in the net above our heads. As I recall she only pooped once on me that night. Not to mention when one’s Dog dies.

Saturday morning both Don and I have near cold's. I have been otherwise a beacon of health since quitting The Office Job some three years back (except for a particularly nasty cold in Idaho). But a a little storm inside is brewing. I can hear it in Don too. The onslaught of illness. "Whatdaya packing or?" I ask. "I'm gonna do it.” He says stuffing socks into his backpack. “Why not." He is resigned. Hitchike down to San Fransisco. Some two hundred miles. Just because. Check on folks in town. I admire him. Wish I had the courage. Kate and Greg are also heading out for the weekend. And while I am glad to have the house to myself I envy them all. Wish I was going somewhere. "Good luck there," I say. "Leave me messages. Let me know how it's going." "Yep. I will." He grins. Catches a ride with Kate down to 101. And I am alone.

It took five minutes for me to make the following decision. Get Out. Head North for the weekend. Find some crappy motel in a tiny town and watch television. Take three showers and run the air conditioner and sleep in a deep soft bed and get rid of this cold. Pack a quick bag and grab my favorite shorts (who were not long for this world) and s the Owl. Two tins of sardines for her.

Odd as it may sound, Zin loved the car. She would sit behind my head on the seat and lean with the curves in the road. Shifting her weight even in sleep in adjustment with our turns. Which I considered to be an adequate but not great substitute for leaning into the wind on high branches.

Sixty miles north and barreling through Eureka. I see a thrift shop and do an impossible U turn. Mostly camo and bright womens clothing but look here: a big brown cotton jacket. Huge buttons and fat zipper it is brand new. Made in Nepal. Twenty bucks. Mine though too warm for it. I will enjoy it in the fall.

Two hundred miles North we go. Through the Redwoods and high plains and up along the coast. Clear to Crescent City on the Oregon border. Where locals have coal black native eyes and hair to match. And pink cheeks. Old wooden signs bearing Native American Salmon images. Boats docked in the cold mist and the smell of salt. Sea birds. Temperatures in the mid spring range.

Wrangle a cheap motel with cable. Picture window, ocean view and a fried seafood snack bar right next door. Draw my shades. A hot shower and run that air conditioner. Zin likes the lamp shade for a perch. How cute but if she poops on it will be hell to clean up. I leave her in search for a hot cup of what else? Quiet fishing town I have the longest hair in the grocery store. Stout girl of eighteen with jet black hair and eyes to match blushes at me over the deli counter. These people look Alaskan to me though I of course have never been there.

Back in my room my coffee is never beter as consumed to the glossy images and sounds of a brand new movie. I watch it and two others like it noting the male heroes are shorn. Short haired almost military. Run my fingers through my long locks in consideration. My cold has remissed already. Zin and I split another tin of sardines. I feel relaxed and safely tucked away hidden up here in this litle sea town as the bone grey sky fades to darkness. Check my messages. Nothing to report. I am almost four hundred miles from anyone I know. A thrill steals through me as nobody on Earth knows my wherabouts. I feel a kind of freedom that is hard to match. I wonder if relocated witnesses ever feel this way.

I walked around town that night looking for good coffee and pretending to be a local. Which might be just about the title of my life's story - Pretending I Am From Here.

The next morning I sneak my bird out of the room (after spot cleaning several white messes she had left overnight) and head south again. I am well rested but the weekend isn't over. One hundred and ten miles south the temperature is warming and I am not ready for that. Eureka ahead. Where Trevor, Jim Dove and myself once crashed at the Pink Flamingo. But the town is larger and more beautiful than we had found and I am hypnotized.

In a corner section of town is a stand of old buildings from way back. Quaint little stores (with expensive goodies) and bricked streets like New England. Like Vermont. This place is too familiar. Must explore. Find another room and give Zin some needed cold air. Two sardines and half an hour of television for lunch. No more or it will spoil your brain I tell her. I'll be right back.

I spend well over an hour in the most cram packed little toy store on Earth. Whereupon I emerge bearing three green tin apples, an ancient yo-yo and a glow-in-the-dark ring. Then on to a gargantuan wheat pita rolled around shredded carrots, beets and hummus. A mammoth treat I would enjoy a month later with Don. Considering the size of the place there ought to be a pet store around. There must be a better meal for my Owl than sardines. Sure enough. Four blocks up the hill you can get seventy five meal worms for about three dollars. Brown little buggers with shiny coating. They burrow beneath the sawdust for cool and protection.

Then the most notable aquisition of the day. After an hour or so of fruitlessly searching for an open barber (on Sunday) I succumb to the Bay Shore Mall where a heavy set blonde woman from down south takes my hair. "Cut it.” I say. “Ok, how do you want it” she asks tugging my bangs even against my face. “Shave it off." "What?" she gapes " how much?" "Leave about an inch I guess." She inspects her shaver and it's lowest setting is indeed one inch. Fuck it. I am spiritous in this world but not so imaginitive. And I try not to panic watching the first pass of the black buzzer as it reveals a dome of brown fuzz across the top of my scull. Long curly chunks over the ears still. Best not to watch. In three minutes I am bald. Close enough anyway. And the hair on the floor is shiny and perfect. "Look at that "she says motioning to the floor "you have such healthy hair." "Had." I say looking at the terribly shiny and strong looking curls in a messy pile. Scrub my hand over my scalp to remove the dust. "Oh, it looks so much better" she says. The light in her face says she means it. Good thing. I am unsure but what does that matter. No putting it back on. Twelve bucks for a three minute shave.

Back in the mall I am naked without my hair. There is that feeling that strangers know it too. The way some people appear to be without glasses though you've never even seen them before. Escape back to the hotel with a two dollar tube of generic hair gel to play.

Zin doesn't know who I am. Click click click's at me. This wears off almost immediately but I think she is annoyed not to have curls to bite. And my hair is too short to do anything with - even with the crappy gel. No brushing it forward or standing it up. Just black brown fuzz. No matter. Turn on the television and all the kids are wearing there hair this way. Looks like the fifties though of course I have never been there.

Pinch a mealworm between those chopsticks and I never saw her make that face before. In a quick flash she jumps the two feet between us expertly sinking those vicious little claws into her writhing meal. Claws that I must boast she never so much as scratched me with though she could have taken my eyes. She cinches it in her little beak and wriggles it down. Yikes. I feed her until she stops eating. I bought three more containers of these little suckers the next day.

Every time I get a hotel I swear I will use it to rest. Get nine plus hours sleep if I can. But I never do. I stay up until I am counting down from eight. Like at three in the morning tell myself "check out is at ten. I'll get up at nine thirty - six hours should do." But I am a big baby and of all the comodities on Earth I have grown older greedy for sleep.

Though I am too cheap for it I place one call. "Hello" says the voice hoped for but unexpected. "Hey! Jesus Chris Jim your alive!" I bark. "Holy shit man, it's you!" says Jim Dove. "Jesus, what happened? Did you make it home alright?" or some other unanswerable question. He tells me his tale (more or less - less I imagine). Bus ride was hell sometimes heaven. Salt Lake City was a hoot. They went through Wyoming then Nebraska on the way home. Too many adventures to relay. His bus pulled into Hartford some ten hours late. Jim ditched there and hitched to his ex girlfriends house. Then borrowed her car and made a midnight beeline those last sixty miles for Jessie’s hideout. Where Jess let him in and Jim shared his very last morsel of Sacrement and let forth his stories pour. "Man, ten hours late eh?" "Yeah, not so bad really - in the four-day swing of it all." And we chit chat for a while as I tell him about Don and the pizzas and my Owl. But I only had a few dollars. You Have One Minute says the computer generated woman. "Jesus Jimmy I think I'll be coming back in the fall. But I dont' know yet." "Hey just let me know I'll take a bus out and drive back with you" he offers. I am floored. Everyone I know who has taken long bus voyages has stepped off with the vow of never doing that again. But here Jim wants to come back out. I am honored but he never does. "Talk with you soon. Good luck!" says Jimmy. Hang up the phone and that odd warm pressure of being all excited for nothing. Like hanging up the phone during the full pitch of an argument or vows of love and you are instantly alone. Hot flash like embarrasment or something. All cranked up and no one to talk to. I miss having a road companion. Zin looks at me as if to say what am I chopped liver?

Where is Don I wonder? Maybe he gave up and went back to Kate's. Wondering what the hell happened to me. Nah, he made it. I watched a new and popular action movie that night and two box office stars were wearing my haircut.

The next day I roar all the way back to Kate's. My cold had vanished without a trace. The fog burns off as the highway climbs into the redwoods. Zin is bright eyed knowing I have meal worms galore for her. I drive with my window especially open in the bright day taking joy in my hairlessness. No bangs whipping me in the mouth or eyes. In the rear view mirror I look like my Father. I guess most people look like one parent or another but I have always thought I have a fifty fifty going on. Some days I look like Ma, some days like Dad. Today I am a young version of my Father. In a few days, my face would stubble over and the resemblance would for one day be uncanny. There are no photos of this but there should have been. Hindsight.

Kate shreiks at my bald head but absorbs the change immediately. She doesn't stare and I don't catch her looking at me over her coffee or Don Quai. She seizes the buttered owl for a kiss on the head. "Lookit I got a chicken chunk." She says. Also the name for the siamese kitten. (Her real name Katana - chosen over Ra) Another kiss on Zin's little skull. The owl blinks languidly at me and I swear she loves Katie. My message system bears a cluster of recordings from Don who is having trouble getting back up by thumb.

One says "Timothy, just headin out of Frisco. Good to see folks, catch up. I got down here pretty quick should be no problem getting back. I should be in later today."

Two hours later sounding tired "Timohty Don here, ah man, I've walked like ten miles.” The sound of a car roaring by, “People just give you the meanest look when they see you hitching. I don't get it."

Four hours later even less enthused "Timothy Don here. I don't know. People look at me like I'm an axe murderer. Discouraging. I don't know how the hell I'm going to get up there man."

But he does. And while it is still light out. I can hear him on the porch as I am getting out of the shower. Kate and Gregory gone for the day already. Wrap the towel around my head like a turban - I have done this for years. There he is on the porch. Sun gladdened and charged from his own weekend adventure - more grueling by far than mine. Shake. Smile like tribesmen.

"Ah, where's the owl?" he asks smiling but with a hint of bracing to hear she has died or is somehow gone. I point to her blue and stuffed cricket on the shelf where she sits preening. His eyes light up. "You still got her." Face it, who would have thought she would live? If I was two people I would not have believed it myself. But there she is. "Oh yeah, check out this" I say and yank the towel off. His jaw drops. "My God you did it!" he is really amazed. And on and off for days keeps staring or inspecting. Twice he didn't know where I was in a small crowd though I was right beside him.

"Here, Tin Apple for you." I toss him one. And he recounts his weekend to me. Smooth flow down, nice stay, hellatious return. And I tell him about Cresent City and Eureka. Toy store and the meal worms. Late night call to Jim Dove. We have hunted and stored enough energy this weekend to break out of our routines and enjoy the next few weeks with zeal. I fidgiting with and gelling my scruff and both of us nurturing the ever smart Owl. See how she regards Katana? Watch the cat whose pupils go to pinpoints as it makes the damdest noise that Don and I would call "skatch".

* * *



Cutting my hair was one of the best things I did this summer. The hot wind can’t blow bangs into my eyes. Or food. And my the sun on my kneck is an odd and welcomed feeling. I actually get a sunburn then tan on my scalp beneath the fuzz. Back at my restaraunt nobody bats an eyelash. They had after all not known me very long. Minor adjustment to what they know. Accept of course Susan who having just returned from two weeks south glares at me as I make my dough. "My god what have you done." I fumble for an explanation. She blinks like a bird at me. Huge dark eyes. "Long hair is just where it's at." She explains. I would later laugh about this with my dear friend Henry. The other cook. Who we will meet in a short while. But I don't miss my locks at all. No muss no fuss making dough and flouring my table. No snags or tangles or loose bangs to poke me in the eyes. Oliver likes it. And Daniel.

Daniel is one of the busboys. Short blonde spikes and blue eyes he could be from Utah. He has more personality than all of these kids. All the regulars know him. Either from school or through his Dad or the like. I first took notice of him one night at Oliver's after work. He was talking about a fantasy novel he had read and I heard him say the following: "Can you imagine that? You come home and a bear has broken into your house. Screwed your wife and stole your stash and jumped out the window?" He laughed with others. "What" I asked "did you say?” He repeats himself. I thought that's what you said. Daniel was almost my best friend at times. He and I would prowl around after work. Hike down to the river and swim during the day. Drive around and laugh and tell each other stories from our childhood. Me all the while pretending to be ever so slightly older and wiser than I really am. Playing Big Brother. Which I have fumbled at forever. "Your becoming famous" jeers Dan one night at work. "Oh is that right?" I ask. "Yeah, these kids this morning were asking about you they were like 'wheres the dude with the owl'". "So now I'm the dude with the owl." I say. He laughs. But I really am. People would come in to get a pie and see me and say hey it's the dude with the owl.

Up and coming is a local festival that has earned National (and I suppose world-wide acclaim). Reggae On The River. Local and international Reggae bands come once a year for this three day event. Combination concert and county fair. There are booths selling food and trinkets from around the Earth and live music. A big field is set aside for camping. The whole area roped and fenced off and segregated not unlike a prison camp which of course I have never seen. And the tickets are expensive and hard to come by and the security is unecessarily air tight. But lucky us.

"If you guys wanna work at our booth we can get you tickets" says Kate practicing a beautiful form in the shade of the backyard with a long wooden sword. "The Aikido Burrito booth. You help us make burritos during the day and I can guarantee you two tickets to the whole sha-bang." Us two being myself and Mr. Parker. Daniel already has his ticket. Roger at the restaraunt asks all the employees weeks in advance who will be working the festival. Shift coverage. Count me out. Not a few locals were baffled by my working the coveted event. After all thousands of people make the trek each year to attend and some never get in due to the aformentioned security.

A bit about choice. Some say there is no such thing as free will. Our every move is destined. Others complain that we are a chemical free for all accident. Do what you want it makes no difference. I am unsure how these two differ. There are even some who beleive we have the freedom to choose but in the end were destined to decide either way. This lofty tangle often leads me to the following: flip a coin. There are some matters in this world above our heads. Pros and cons be damned. Each of us has endured something horrific we will ever blame ourselves for having not averted. Do what you can with your decisions and outcomes. Here I am in California thinking about my Owl. Am I keeping this bird because it is cute or somehow noble to care for it or am I just a greedy child who wants his toy? Should I let it go and give her life to the survival of the fittest or keep her in a glass cage? What if it comes time to return East? Whilst Don showers I make my decision. Summon my Universe Stone. Take my favorite jeans and fold them into a perfect square. Hold the cold stone flat against my palm and think to myself "circle I will keep her a while longer and see what happens. Blank side I let her go." Toss with an elegant arc and spin. The stone lands precicely on the denim mat circle side up. I never worried about it again. Not for a minute.

Don and I pack a day's worth of stuff for the show. Kate and Gregory had left before we awoke and had agreed to meet us there. Leaving us two nice yellow tickets on the table with a little note "See you At Reggae!" Zin is comming with us. The only other option is to leave her here in the cottage by herself except for the lions and we've no idea what time we'll return. So Don and I spend a little while bending small soft rings of silver into a chain. Then ever so gently cinch that last hasp and fasten the chain around Zin's precious little ankle. All the while her too large claw idly feeling our hands. There it is. Nice little bracelet. And I fashion a small pin at the end of a leather string. In one slick motion she is tethered. In another she is free. In the backyard amid some other old ruble I find an ancient bird cage. Snap the top off and carry it in pieces. Pack a long sleeve and some water and grab my big old hat. Faded oiled cotton looks like leather. Soft but big and waterproof. Wide brim. It is about 10:30. We have until noon.

Fifteen miles north we see the site. Off to the right and under a grove of Redwoods the blue Eel river separates the road from the festival. I can see the booths and hear the crowd. And traffic stopped dead. My lord look at all those cops. People are walking on the road from both directions toward the entrance. Backpacks and sweaty tans. We will never make it on time. Don and I decide to take the car all the way up to town (where I work) and take a shuttle bus back.

Up in town the day threatens to be excruciating. The road is black hot like a pizza oven. Find a tiny spot of shade to perch on the sidwalk. Pick a few blackberries and watch as Zin devours them with wild glee. Half an hour groans by. Where the hell is that bus? "I'm goin up to the other stop." I say soaked in sweat. "I'll see if the bus has come there yet". Besides I was in no mood to answer any more questions from the ragged youth, also waiting for the bus, could not shut up about how the Owl Is My Spirit Animal Dude.

Up at the corner gas station there is a crowd of steaming kids. The real bus stop. I'll be damned here it comes. Big yellow schoolbus rumbles up the street and parks in front of our crowd to cheers. Door shushes open and kids file in. I am hanging back waiting for Don. Look at him run boy. But he'll never make it in time. Christ now what. I hop in line and file onto the already jam packed bus. Shove for the back seat. Squashed in with six others. Zin perches on my shoulder beside the open window. None of these kids even notice her. Amazing. There's Don running up to the bus. Maybe he'll make it yet. Nope. They cut him off and he is singularly the only person who didn't get on. Incredible. "Tell that guy - hey girls" I say. Heavy set thirteen year olds. "tell that tall dude that Tim will meet him at the booth". They laugh. "Seriously do it." I plead. They yell out the window at him. He doesn't hear. "Yell it again." I insist. They do. He doesn't hear. Damnit. The bus starts to roll. One of the girls stands up and jams her head through the window and totally screams. He smiles and nod a great big exagerated yes Phew.

The weight of two hundred or so people on the schoolbus makes for sketchy curves back on 101. Busdriver seems to be annoyed and confident. But grace in any dose is grace and the window in front blew a gentle and steady breeze the whole time. We roll through gold summer air between Redwoods in the Richardson Grove. The bus seems like a toy amid the trees and we are offloaded at the aparrent entrance to the grounds. Which turned out to be about a mile or so from where I needed to be. Not really though. Ticket then ID wristband checks every two hundred yards. Spooky and military like. Probably six or seven points in all. And though I lug this ridiculous birdcage, nobody seems to see the Owl. Which I am glad of. The last thing I want is to run into was someone who might accost me as to the legality concerning her having, which I hadn’t realy considered until now. Curse myself for this. But a few people do see Zin and I can’t complain for the nice folks not the least of which were occasional and lovely girls who would rush up all cutie pie faced and can I touch her?

A small city (more a town) of tents off to the left and I finally find my way to the booth where I am supposed to meet Kate and Gregory who are not even here. I’m late by almost an hour. This annoys me in the heat. Zin too. But there are only a few folks here yet and I am all things considered really an hour or so early for any task to do. Which I discover by volunteering to cut tomatos or onions but it’s ok their done. Burritos they can make as the are ordered. Still an hour before business.

A frustrating few moments hanging that birdcage and what I considered to be a bad Omen. I had unpleasant moment of discourse with one of the Aikido teachers. My own fault of course. “Your owl.” He says to me. Mid fifties long salt and pepper ponytail. Musketeer goate. “What would happen if you let her go?” he asks simply but as obvious bait. Which annoys me. “Do you want to just jump right to the philosophy of owning animals in general?” I snap. I was so hot and bothered I just blurted it out. He just smiles. Inner calm. Roland was his name. “It’s cool man.” He laughs rolling me and my anger by. “ I just wondering how you got her.” I tell him scrubbing my fingers over my steaming head. “I’m not sure when to let her go. I think I’ll just know you know?” He knows. I guess. I am glad he let me off the hook but still hot and Zin sure don’t like this cage I want her in.

The fair starts to warm up. Other vendors opening up. Fruit juices and frozen treats. Smell the falafel and french fries. At the base of the hill and at the edge of the great circle of tents and booths of food and trinkets of all manner, is the stage. Band checking their equipment in great electric squawks like demon bird calls. Above our booth at the crest of the hill is a great grassy stretch where we will sit and watch the show exhausted in the dusky twilight. Roland out in front of the booth demonstrates Aikido with me. Evokes me to poke him and then pushes me by. Or wrenches - guides me to the ground. Face down. Face up. Whichever. I keep poking and swinging at him and we laugh pretty good. I try to feel the way he manipulates my center of balance. I consider this to be a priviledge and I think he considers me to be a lunatic but I like him and can feel he likes me. Don arrives all sweaty with his own bus story and hike. Shows me his ID bracelet grinning. “Coveted.” he says.

Other members of the Aikido family arrive and it is soon time to open for business. Everyone gets together and holds hands in a big ring. These faces I would see often. Then a prayer of sorts. During which Roland says something to the effect of “and we must remember not to give in to anger” and I know it’s meant for me and somehow in an all knowing and mystical fashion these people seem to know too. I am embarrased but accepted.

Everyone gets a task. Two production lines and many parts. Tortilla and cheese, bean, tomato. Sour cream. Two to shout the orders back. Two to run them back and forth. I can’t decide what I want to do. But it doesn’t matter as everyone grabs their role they must ever year. Don somehow gets in and I am left suddenly like a dork with no job. But we know fate and it seems there’s one job nobody wants. That of the vendor hisself. Thee who will stand out front and administrate the orders and proper change. You know, the guy who says step right up. So ok. I’ll do it.

In the variety of work I have performed in this life I have had the opportunity to hone some strange skills. As a kid I once worked in a kitchen in a girls dormatory. The idea alone sold me the job though I only saw the girls in glances out in the cafeteria loading up their plates. French toast for four hundred or so at six a.m.. I could toss the toast in the air, flip the spatula (spinning it thrice) and then catch the toast like a master. Not to mention my time mastered expertise with such useless implements of our century as tape and price guns, credit card imprinters and why not computers. Also a few good ones like retying a hay bail at three quarters and making bread. Another skill is that I have learned to converse over the counter. To act as the merchant and representative of enterprise. So I felt as almost sheepish stepping up to announce we were open for business.

In no time we’re flowing like a dance. A small crowd gathered that I had harrangued by shouting to passerbys. Like carnival folks pitching there game at you (as you wander wanting only your cotton candy). “Burrito Supreme? Fine three dollars please thank you step to this side here where this gentlemen (or fine lady) will hand it to you presently - next!” Or to the same effect. Over and over all day. And it was glorious. Everyone played their part smoothly. I’m a mile a minute with strangers and feeling guilty for having such fun. But nobody else wants my job. Except Lance. Young Aikido Dancer extrordinaire. Kate once described him as the Wronged Prince. Grumpy but young and angular and keen. Switches with me off and on all day. He pulls up a stool to sit which annoys me as I can see he would rather drive customers off with his glare than work. But we would become friends later.

During breaks the crew made us all Burritos for ourselves which we devour. Or trade for iced cream or frozen fruit drinks at other booths. The heat beats down but we are in form. I turn at one point to the runner for my order and there’s Kate. Brown vested in Indian braids. Smiling sheepishly having just arrived.

Golden California twilight sets with all the trimmings. Fat orange nimbus in soft stretches and sweet August breeze like ambrosia. A galaxy of electric lights are born in the summer dusk and the heat relents to the gentle night air. Aikido family has things well under control and Don and I are proclaimed free (though of course we always were) to enjoy the fair as participants. Emancipate my Spirit Animal. Zin clicks at me angry (you asshole) from her day in the cage but tethers sweetly and is glad of my shoulder. And while inspecting and loving her on the hillside awaiting Don we have a little drama. There seems to be a bit of blood on her beak. A light ring of it around the base. Lord she has hurt herself trying to get out of that damn cage. My fault. I am mortified and punched in the stomach with blame. I never took her from the forest to do this to her. Don strides up long legged. “What’s that?” “Blood man. Jesus Christ looks like she’s bleeding or something. Look here.” I show him my brows in a furrow. His face blooms. “Nah man, look. It’s blackberry from this morning.” And sure enough. I in fact tasted a small bit - licking my finger and wiping it away. Blackberry juice. Zin winks at me. Joy! My heart again soars and just in time for this unforgettable evening to begin. Look. Daniel.

“Hah Tim!” he says. Behind him a young burly kid tags along. Must have been six three. Native American. Black eyes and hair. Fool grin like a kid. All elbowing Daniel. “Tim this is Ray. Ray, Tim. He has magic powers.” Says Daniel grinning. I don’t know if he means me or Ray. Though he later introduced me the same way to others I think he meant us both at the time. Ray hands me a black and fringed boda bag. Like a wineskin. Daniel juts his chin at me to indicate ‘try it’. Both smile. Aw hell, why not I am still warm and flustered over the blackberry bit. But I tell thee reader that it was neither blackberry juice nor alcohol in that boda bag. In fact the world (including myself) will likely to never know it’s exact contents. After I have my slug Don availes himself. Then Daniel and like a spell his companion Ray snatches his bag and vanishes. It takes just about an hour for the thick and almost sickly sweet potion to make it’s way to my so-dense skull.

As darkness has set full and my head is beginning to tingle from the odd medicine, the noise from the stage reaches a crescendo. Then suddenly explodes to mad applause and fades. Show’s over. But it really is just beginning for us. To prove this a large white rectangle is slowly lowered in front of the band who is bowing to leave. Crowd shushes. A flash of white light over our heads. Don Daniel Zin and I. Look moving images on the screen! What is that? Concentric red spirals. Sure enough. Looney Tunes. Crowd roars. I smile so hard I almost split my head in half. Don laughs at me. My head is singing with tingles. Potion has reached the blood. I turn my head and gently brush Zin with my ear. She shivers and gives it a reproachfull nibble. Daniel stands. “Let’s bounce.”

So for the first hour of this evening we bounce around the fair grounds. Inspecting booths in our chemical state. I remember meeting an old man who enjoyed my owl and wanted to teach me to play a digderidoo. Long tube from australia it growls and zounces. That’s the only way to describe it. “Come back later man.” He entices. I say I will but of course don’t. I was then accosted by the strangest fellow of about all time. Though perhaps it was the potion. This man is wearing some animal’s skin as a cape of sorts. Wrapped snuggly about him and cinced at his kneck. Short blonde hair and pointy beard. Blue to red eyes. A staff of five feet bearing the largest piece of quartz I have ever seen. The thrust of his words are slow and growly and are as follows - “I am the beastmaster! The hawk lands near me! If you will let me have your owl” (of course it all leads to this) “I will let you choose from one of my seven greatest treasures.” Including that staff. To which I am all a twitter with potion and awe. Is this guy real? Look Don and Daniel are ten feet away in hysterics over all of this. Beastmaster doesn’t see them. Must get away from this guy. He ain’t getting Zin. And right here a little poetry. “Your owl” growls the Beastmaster “what is her name?” I had been asked this question about a billion times. Drunk at a party I joked once that if her name was the sound she responded to, then her name was a kissing sound like calling cats. During the fair I had lied to people that “I didn’t name her” and “I don’t know” though I had in fact told some that it was Zin. Right in the moment that the Beastmaster asked me her name, I made up a quick lie. Like poetry. “Takasha. Her name is Takasha.” I tell him brushing her with my ear. Big beautiful word. He reels. Perhaps he had some of Ray’s potion. Face it perhaps he wasn’t real at all. But he finally vanishes and I am left with Don and Daniel grinning like bastards. And Takasha. Who I later decided with Don was part Akasha (a holy Hindu word) and Tacumseh (legendary Native American Warrior). And for the rest of her precious stay with me it was her name. I never lied about it again.

Some time later we decide to leave the fair grounds. Outside the actual fair itself there is a precession of surly fellows selling their own wares. Shifty guys who either couldn’t get into the concert or who simply never had that intention. “What-you want man?” they jeer and whisper. But we don’t want anything. Though somehow Daniel procures a marble sized bead of black hashish dark and piney. “Let’s go into the Richardson for this.” He says. Which takes about an hour though it is a scant few hundred yards away. We get lost in that small town of tents. Their rounded domes all blue and fuzzy in the dark summer night seem to shift and shimmer. “Jesus Don, it’s a Goblin town!” We laugh. The potion makes us all see it. But this is only so funny because maybe it truly is a Goblin town. I notice we are stooped and moving through these camps like we are sneaking. Which I guess we were. Though why I don’t know. Damn potion. Somehow we make it all the way to the road. Cars being funneled out of the event by locals weilding beautiful to look at orange pointer lights. This way -this way - they swirl. Backpackers and hitchhikers and so forth dot the dark roadside like ghosts.

Redwoods are some of the most incomprehensible things to witness on the Earth. Manmade or otherwise. And in the dark of summer night and flash of passing highbeams they are downright astral. We three wise men float silently off the road and into the wood. A path appears beneath our feet as in a dream. It leads to a small clearing of Reds. Where we sit. Daniel hands me the marble of hash and I pinch it between my forefinger and thumb. I can smell it distinctly. No I can breath it. “Daniel I can breath this hash through my fingers!” I announce. He laughs. “Here! Try it!” I hand it to him. He squeezes it and his smile fades slowly. “My god,” he says. Cars rush past in the dark and are swallowed up by the trees. Their headlamps cast dancing angles and illuminate great trunks. We can hear the conversations of passing ghosts. Listen Don says. Daniel is breathing that hash. Above there is a hole in the treetops and the stars look down on us. They are so bright. Almost as if one could see by their light. I look to the ground and pass my hand back and forth and suddenly see with clarity the shadow of my hand in the moonless starlight. Gasp. Try it again. I can detect the different hues and brightenesses of individual stars. My hand throws many shadows. I look up quickly and one very large and blue star seems to be patroling it’s area of the spangled night sky. The way a Dragonfly tends her domain for small insects. Damn that potion. Brush my ear against Takasha. She is puffed into a ball for sleep and ignores me. This Moment is Sacred in my Memory. Shadows of colored starlight and Takasha sleeps.

When we finally get up to move around Daniel had lost his hash. None of which we ever smoked. I am too entranced by starlight to care. Don listening to people talk from miles away. Back on the road I walk behind them and they seem to be floating ahead on shadows themselves. We walk like this for a mile or so until we find a great sign bearing the name of our sacred Grove. Some unseen force has guided us here. Topside we climb the sign to sit silently like monks. Or monkeys. Cars roar by in a burst of light. In our stillness our shadows race away. Another car. Roars by. Like a fantastic show of light and dark. Here comes one. Lights and that roar but this car is a jeep and doesn’t roar by. It rockets off the road just across from where we sit. Off the road and up a quick steep hill of faded grey pavement. Where was that road a minute ago? The jeep all quick and sneaky like dissapears. We look to one another in amazement and then hop down to investigate. Sure enough some strange back road is hiding just between some clumps of junipers. Nicely concealed. No wonder that jeep was rocketing. Didn’t want to give it’s secret away. Too late it did. And tommorrow when we return to the Reggae Burritos, damn the bus. We’ll stash our car up on that hill a short mile from the fair. “Wow” says Don. “Ex - hausted.” “Me too” grins Daniel dragging his feet. And so am I. Takasha has been puffed up for hours. She is a part of my shoulder now. “Do you guys want to leave now?” I ask. We are about eight miles from the town where my car is stashed. It is after three in the morning. No idea of how we’ll get there. “I mean are you really - really ready to go now?” I ask. “Because if you are, let’s go. If not, no point in worrying about it.” Daniel smiles but nods. “Yeah. I’m ready.” “Me too” says Don. So ok. Hey look, here comes a car. Daniel sticks out his thumb. Car screeches to a halt. “Hey where ya goin?” asks the heavy set and police uniformed girl in the drivers seat. Small white import. Glance to one another. Potion is still strong. “Up to town.” I say . “Hop in.” she is fearless of three men at three a.m.. So we do. Don and Daniel steal the back seat and I am corralled into the front. Where I don’t want to be. “I just got out of work” she offers. I can sense her energy. That second wind from punching out. “Really? Working till three?” “Yep. That damn concert. Every year it get’s worse. Those people I tell you.” She is a ranger from the Richardson Grove and not a cop at all. And I smile and yes her all the way to town hoping she won’t notice that we are in fact those people of which she speaks. Glance in the back. Damn those boys. Laughing silently at me as with the Beastmaster. Takasha stays puffed. And in ten quick minutes we are offloaded gloriously at Julia to a hearty handshake of hers. Though her kindness delivered us she never looked me in the eye and never saw Takasha though she was but inches away.

In the dark empty morning we float Daniel up the hill to his house and then thirty grey wordless miles to Kate’s. Who was Elsewhere with Gregory. Don and I talked until almost sun up. Takasha was a still puff ball atop her stuffed cricket. And though we had to be back the next day for another round of reggae burritos, we slept till nearly noon.

All things ebb and flow. The tides rise then fall then rise, darkness gives way to light and so on. A read a book where a gypsy like character is into what she calls climacterics. Or so I recall. This is described as a system by which all humans live in seven year cycles. Seven years of rising fortune then seven years of loss. Like a great sin wave. Or ocean wave. The idea that luck rises and swells stuck with me and seems to hold some degree of truth. I could imagine the day before all silver foam and sunset from the last good wave. That midnight walk through the shadowy redwoods and into the stars.

Don and I overslept by about an hour. I crawl from Kate’s room (an at times sanctuary for rest when I know she won’t be home) and unfold like a crumpled newspaper. It is almost one hundred degrees. Don is clean shaven and ready for another round of Reggae. Takasha Zin glares at me from her cricket. No way she says. Ok. Leave her here for the day to take her chances with the Pride. Which she survives.

Halfway to the fair we remember the jeep from the night before and that hidden parking spot. Best park there. Take Advice and Gifts from Nature. But only as She gives them. Great idea look at the crowd. And crammed bus. Smug we stash Julia up the hill a mere mile from the festivities. As the morning joe hits the bloodstream we opt for the long way. Look there is a path down to the river. Let’s follow it up stream. It’s so damn hot. Maybe a dip. Bad idea. The water is foul and there are hundreds of campers bathing and just lounging in the blue Eel. Dogs galore helping themselves. I am reminded of ancient times when royalty lived at the top of the river so as not to have to suffer the poloution of the middle class. Skip that swim. Stick to the hike. Bad idea. We get lost in a maze of paths. Hear the water to the right? Suffer through stinging bushes and down a trecherous valley. Only to come out atop an impassable cliff. The dots below are stinky campers releiving themselves of grime and smell in my River. Great. No going down. Don stands arms akimbo as the sweat from his skull makes neat lines on his long jaws. Head back the way we came.

It takes hours to finally reach the burrito booth. Plum tuckered in the early afternoon blaze. Looks like they could have made on without us any how. No matter. Pitch right in and pass the time. Which works like a charm.

In an imemorable blur it is sundown and then time to leave. Don and I make our excuses and give our goodbyes. One last long walk around the fair, nothing special we’ve seen it all the night before and then some. Today has been a chore but it ain’t over. It is pretty near exactly one mile to the car. Back through the dark Redwoods and up that drive. Just as her red silhouette is in sight I pat myself down for the keys. Gone. Yes gone. Think now, where the hell . . . back at the booth. Next to my favorite sunglasses (which I forgot a second time and would never see again). Damn. Pooped and long armed we march the mile back to my keys and another back to the car. Not midnight yet it is still early but we are almost more exhausted than the day before and not too mystical. Plod back to kates.

This flavor stayed for the duration of my next wave (or undertow). The first was Don’s announcement that he was heading to Frisco in a few scant days to pick up another movie job. Can’t resist the wage and let’s face it adventure. I cannot begrudge him but will miss his company. But I have still have Takasha. Though her chapter also comes to an end. Here’s how:

A few nights after reggae I take Don and Owl to work with me. He can take Julia and the bird and get lost to his own taste until I am done. An hour early he returns. “Howdy.” Says he in the restaurant. “Howdy. Slice of pie?” “Sure.” He bellies up to the bar. Folded newspaper under his arm. “I’ll be just readin till you get out. Birds in the car.” He maws his pizza and makes a gesture with that paper. Ten minutes later I head out to the car with a raw chicken breast wrapped in plastic. Takasha has graduated to large chunks these past few weeks. This is her favorite. Don is across the street looking this way and a that. Frantic like. Oh no. “What’s going on?” I pipe. “Ah,” he laments. I suddenly know. She’s gone. We look quickly around but it is of no use. Darkness has all but set and she is a needle in a haystack. No. She was a diamond in a storm. Still there somewhere in the gathering night before my eyes but gone. “Man,” Don is so sorry “she was getting all curious today, walking under the seat. The window was only open this much.” He shows me an inch. “I was sitting readin the paper and I heard her flutter and didn’t think nothing of it.” Don looks to bear the blame but it ain’t his fault. I had noticed her curiosity becoming fearless as her tail grew and knew that the most fascinating thing to her - the largest and deepest most complex thing she could study would be the outdoors. This feeling precluded a knowing that she would go free and there was a thrill in this somewhere for me. Like the feeling you have watching your child open a gift. One that you Know they Want. Her latest trick had been to hang upside down from a leather cord, fan her wings out and hold them there. I could then set her in my hand on her back and she would just idly grab and feel my fingers with her beautiful little talons. In epilogue Kate and I discussed her return to the forest. “She had that bracelet on though,” I say. Small band of silver rings Don and I fashed just before Reggae. “I wonder if that will be her undoing. Get caught in something with it.” Though we had checked it out good and it seemed pretty snag proof. “Nah,” says Kate glad and solid with certainty “it’s her magic braclet she got from living with and being raised by the strange creatures. She’ll be an Owl Legend and tell her story to all the other owls.” I believe her.

Near the end of loss. My inch long crew cut was becoming a small afro. A bush. While watching a movie one afternoon I am keen to the leadings man short hair and grab for scissors. Hang a mirror for the back view and snip snip presto - there it is. Hey Don check it out. “Ah, Timothy”, he tries not to smile. Fails. “You clipped a big bald spot back there.” A triangle of slug white skin right square on the back of my head. How annoying. “You still got that shaver” I ask. “Yeah but it ain’t got no attachments.” Don says. Our bumpkin inflections over the years are both affected and then genuine and are precious for having some basis in our actual history. And History. “Just the one setting.” He says. “Fuck it lemme see that thing.” Back to the john I start with my forehead. The electric whine and off falls a chunk of hair. Thick chunk. Leaving an equally paste white square right above my eyebrows. Whoa. In three minutes I am as bald as five o’clock shadow. Balder. My long and narrow cranium exposed to the world. Don gasps. Then laughs despite himself. Me too I guess but I will be self concsious for weeks. Not to mention sunburn in a way I never experienced. Oh well, be thankfull for what you have. But don’t count your chickens.

Three days before Don’s departure and his bags are packed. One final trip up to town to hang out for a day off. Swim at the river and hike it’s sunny banks. Local kids have dragged large river stones into the deepest pool. You dive down and grab one and swim furiously to the surface. Then hold your breath and relax and let it pull you back down - slowly flying into the cold deep. What will I do without Don? He assures me he will return in a few weeks for the conclusion of this chapter. For a week we poured over maps and books on Mexico and were going to go from September to October. Train through Copper Canyon and bus all the way to Mexico City. But the timing failed and it didn’t happen though I am still Alive. What’s that smell from the engine? The smell is a pink liquid never before seen to my eyes. Not oil not antifreeze. Not water. Pink red liquid sizzling under the hot engine. Best pack it in. Back to Kate’s less than thrilled. And though it displeases me to relinquish her, I turn my vehicle over to a new mechanic. Hailing from my own Constitution State, Paul lives five houses from Kate and works on cars part time. He really knows his cars but it slow to motivate. “Pink stuff huh? Could be power steering fluid.” He says wiping his hands on his hefty legs. But he doesn’t know. Thumbs his moustache. Check back in a few days. Déjà vu.

During the first day of my new level of car-lessness Don thumbs a ride to the bus and is gone. Alone again just like that. This here is the low point of my undertow. No Don no julia no Owl no hair. Let’s never forget no money. Julia’s repairs won’t be for free. Then pizzas don’t pay too bad but the occupation of loner and self styled nomad here don’t pay squat. Dollar wise that is. How in the hell am I going to get to work and back? What will I do all alone? Big sigh. But unknown to me the undertow has sucked it’s last and a wave of clarity is set to roll. Thank the stars.