"There Was Some Old Song That Said..."

Often times, after a gathering, there will remain a table cluttered with glasses, bottles, bowls, cups, and cans. It is of the utmost importance that this table remains as such for a short time, so that the occasion may enjoy the same passing memorial that we will, lying with our memories six feet below our graves. It was...

This is the image that sits in front of me on an Austin morning, framed with the lush backdrop of a central Texas spring. Being a current San Franciscan, I cannot stress how much of an impression this makes on me, as our fair city has no room in its residential heart for such trivialities as trees, space, or laughing birds.

An empty charcoal bag sits on the upper patio, its mouth open to the sun. Only several hours prior, this vacant vessel fueled a proper infernal dance, which climbed the walls of our grill to leap at the smiling chins of those drawn to its warmth and majesty. In memory, the faces of all who met live in the glow of these flames, merry and diamond eyed, floating in the dark of the night.

Behind this gaping, empty bag, the windows of my dear friend's home reflect the morning back on itself, hiding its slumbering occupants from the sleepy eyes of the world. Not all the glass panes of this fair structure are intact, as I, with nimble arms and good intent, have broken one. The circumstances of said breaking are unimportant, but suffice to say that in the throws of my festivity, often times my coordination decides to take a shit. Whilst this said shit proceeds, no task I may undertake is spared the danger of destruction. These occasions oft transform me into an over affectionate bear, so present humankind is never properly spared from the slight agony of my ever present and honest love.

And a loving occasion it was...and there will be many more...as long as my fortune lasts...and hopefully beyond. The trail across the crick begs for running, and my pores beg for cleansing, so until we meet again...