I don’t know Andy. But once I knew a man who urged me to climb to the top of Pompey’s Pillar with my sleeping bag. He’d come from where he was, I was to come from where I was and we’d meet at the top and you know. Cover ourselves with stars. Or some suchness.
I never did meet him there. But I’ve since slept at the base of that pillar. Somewhere in this blog is a photo of the prairie grass with the morning sunlight slicing through it.
My timing is often off.
Remember me? I was your wrong number the other day.
And once I knew someone else not called Andy. All over the Malibu we ate from a can-man’s grocery cart. But never at McD’s in Tijuana. He knew how to carve a crutch. He knew how to laugh when our Tijuana taxi driver got lost and asked us for directions. He always knew when to cross the border, how to get back home. But then some suchness happened. And guess what. Somehow now he’s lost.