August 19, 2002

• 

  Roxx suggested posting some scenic pics.

  In my life, liberation has been a progressive matter.  My
  memoirs are just about to enter my longest period of
  incarceration, which lasted a little over a year. 
  Anyone who has done hard time would say, “I can do that much time
  standing on my head… in the shitter.”  I might feel the same way
  if I’d ever done hard time, but I (and I say this thankfully,
  gratefully, humbly) frankly feel horrible contemplating even a night
  locked up.  I don’t do confinement or restriction well. 
  Attentive readers may have noticed that already.

  When I got out of prison in 1971, it wasn’t long before I was on the
  road.  I hitchhiked some, and I rode freight trains a little while
  before getting back out on the Interstates where I felt more at
  home.  During that brief time riding the rails, my newfound
  friends among the hoboes told me I needed a moniker, a unique sign or
  symbol to scrawl on boxcar walls, sidewalks, fences and such to show
  that I had been there and/or to indicate which way I went and
  when.  I was off the road for some weeks at my Aunt Goldie’s place
  in Morro Bay when I doodled up the simple drawing of a butterfly
  ascending that has become my signature.  My gallant old fart had
  it tattooed on his arm while we were on our honeymoon.

  I bring this up now because the butterfly, the free winged thing
  that has but recently been a worm, which has been my symbol
  for thirty years, is especially meaningful to me now.  A chain of
  events, to part of which my regular readers have been observers here,
  has converged and left me feeling even freer, higher, more wingedly
  liberated than ever.  I’m going to write more about this soon,
  maybe on Schpeedy tonight.  For now, I’m going to post this
  essentially unfinished blog because Greyfox, the aforementioned gallant
  old fart, just came in, rained out early from his stand, and we have
  things to do.  Later, all.

  • 7:19 pm
  • 12 Comments