Wisers Whisky

There is a place under the oats, under the sky, where you buried treasure for your future children. To make them strong. They would dig not knowing how deep. Not knowing if they were in the right place, until they were, or until they gave up. 

If I were to talk about it, you wouldn't remember the time you bled the walls red. Your blood Josef. Painted the walls. I made you believe you were asleep. Cleaned you and put you to bed. Alone I scrubbed away the traces. Rung the towels until the water ran clear.

It was the car I loved if not you. Volkswagen Jetta. Sheep skin seats. Filthy as fuck but well built. It was the same colour as your skin exposed to the sun all those hours working outdoors. 

Most saw the smile lines and freckles, the arms, large and brown. They thought you were simple. And you were. Except your simplicity was a distillation of great wisdom. There is something to be said about brawn gained stacking bales of hay, and brains nourished on fresh air and open spaces. You were dazed and rugged to everyone else, but pristine in private as I read you to sleep.

Do you remember the night I screamed? Everyone heard. You woke and it was real and you were scared too. The bear breathing inches from our heads. Huffing and sniffing. And then terror. The huge paw pressed against the wall of the tent. And I was wrapped up in it, suffocating and so I screamed bloody goddam murder. So loud Saskatchewan heard me. But then it wasn't real. It was just nighttime and I was just dreaming and you said "What the Shit" in the stoned-surfer way you had of speaking sometimes when you were half asleep, and the people camped around us who thought I was dying laughed when they heard you because they knew I was okay, you were there. 

I'm convinced you knew I was begging the universe. Chanting, chanting, chanting. Taking the Whisky like it was communion. But it wasn't time. They found your car abandoned in the airport parking lot. Your tin of weed wrapped in a bread bag, wedged in haste under the seat, 4 joints expertly rolled.  

You were gone. They'd tease me and tell me you were coming back to dig us out of the mess we were in. You'd bring a flat bed truck loaded with dirt bikes for everyone and we wouldn't have to walk for hours through the mud anymore. I believed them. Time trudged on, knee deep. And gradually your absence became so real and everywhere felt so empty. I stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped and savoured how completely free I was to remember the straw of your hair, the lines of your face, and the smooth white skin underneath it all.

fog in the morning

These cravens were clattering around on top of the hangar this morning and the noise drew me outside and I immediately went back in to grab the camera. I tucked Juniper in the chariot with a few blankets and Wellington followed along as I took what I thought would be a few photos. A few hours later we had meandered our way through the fog and the fields of oats all the way to the Yukon River which is about 2kms from our cabin, snapping photos all the while.

 Such a crude, industrial looking building but so beautiful. 

Sasquanch would know. Raven or Crow. Either way they drew me out with all the cawcawcawing and flailing around on the tin roof. Of course I thought they were greeting me. That's what we humans do. We assume things about nature. Things that include us. What we forget is that nature has simpler intentions, more basic, yet infinitely more important than us. They were probably using sound to help them get around in the fog. (Or they were just whooping it up because the fog was so beautiful, tehe).

I found this child in the oats...

squanch-a-medic

squanch is getting tired of not being able to find a job down here in the cityish place. he knows up north there are lots of jobs for squanches like him. he may move to far north and work as a medic there. the plan is in motion. i will go to be with him when school is done for the summer. exciting.