of hearth and home

Damn that was a fine party.

Gathered around the backyard fire bowl, which looks like this with added logs and flames.

Sunk into a potpourri of chairs and bean bags. Talking and drinking and smoking beneath a headlight of a moon one day past full. Up till dawn, probably, some of 'em.

A good 80 percent of the folks with ties stretching back a decade or two. Most, from what I gathered, are natives of Tacoma. I meet them in striking amounts. In fact I've never lived in a place with so many natives. I've pursued why this be. "If we leave, we come back" is the usual response. I totally get it. They may then proceed to rattle off the list of positives but it's unnecessary for I was sold on this town practically from the moment of arrival. In my wanderings and travels, there are few places I'd be pleased to claim as home. Tacoma is one of 'em.

Here's what a bottle of absinthe very much smells like: Nyquil. No wonder a cube of sugar is added to make it more palatable.

A friend says the longest prison lockdown he's endured is two months. (For those unacquainted, lockdown is a cessation of certain services and all outdoor activity; no one's permitted to leave the pods/units.) I've tried to imagine how uncomfortable and confining it must get to be enclosed within walls all of the time. Boring and stressful and potentially explosive above and beyond the usual level. Lockdowns were enacted when I worked at the prison. A deathly silence fell outside the walls. It was kind of eerie; brought to memory a gloomy atmosphere of a concentration camp visited in Europe.

Changes are afoot, for me as well as others around. June looks poised to be veritable garden of blooms and tiny mystical creatures visible only to the inner eye. In this time of mystery and magic, make a wish and blow.

.

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