Mi hermano tiene casado.

5 days in Montana -- biggest regret, I could not, did not express my love for my parents. Could I not get a word in edgewise? Did I not have great enough control of my emotions, such that I was calm and clear enough to say what was true? Or is it as Liz discovered (again), my mind has wandered so far into a field of flesh that there is precious little space remaining for deep thought?

Considerations that will surely be considered over the coming days.

My toast to my little brother and his wife, at Serano's Cantina in East Glacier on the night of June 7th:

"First of all, thank you Glacier National Park and the spirits who reside here. Thank you Jody [the minister and his wife from Browning] for conducting the service. Now, as growing up and leaving home as young boys do, my greatest regret has been the distance and loss of my little brother as my best friend. I'm happy to see that he has found that with Naomi, and so this toast is to their wedding."

That part I think I got right. Mom said later, now I am a Godfather and a Best Man.

Prestigious titles. I can't say I feel worthy of them, though I now wear them.

I see my father but I have trouble looking him in the eye. While in the city, my intuition of people is a contentable wash of 3rd party emotions, of my family is a tidal wave of personal laundry.

I watch my father in the lounge take the stage in the Glacier Park Lodge afront arm-in-sling Mom, my brother, Liz, Naomi's stepfather, mother, sister (and boyfriend Kyle), Grandmom, grandmother (and twin)...and I sense/see on everyone's face a resigned will to listen politely, bordering so closely to sighs of "omg-here-we-go-again" that my heart sinks. I turn my attention to listen but I can't hear -- I only see my dad's childlike eyes and enthusiasm shining forth like blue ocean. His nature is foolishly optimistic, despite all of his tough stories and bullish theories of business and power. I am his son?

And of course I am, in so many ways that the embaressment I feel on his behalf is entirely embaressment at myself -- oh how I have unconciously modeled my after him!

My mother sits in physical pain; they occaisionally break apart at the seams, crescendoing to animal ferocity at each other and patch it all back up again as if it never happened -- pleasant conversation ensures. Is this the essence of marriage? An inevitable collision course with each other that amounts only to as much drama as its participants are willing to extract? In Mom and Dad's case, they push each other to the door-jam of an open shouting match, where somehow he either compromises in a fit or she goes into a massive pout so large you can't breathe. Always with pleasant conversation following.

I find myself borrowing wheel-barrows of Liz's dark pessimism towards human behavior, and soon enough, I find myself hating myself for not loving my parents.

She and I become lost in this, reminding me, despite the reassuring solidity of our relationship, it remains so mostly because of a careful arrangement of life elements around us. When we are tested, we break apart at the seams (also), and plummet to depths of which we have not yet had 30 years to explore.

I lose hope. As my behavior is selfish and ignorant of consequence. As hers is deeply wounded and wild with passion. The two combined can create our night together post-wedding party -- wrecked with hurt and misunderstanding. I blame it on bad Montana skunk weed.

But what can be done? The grace of God inspires all things and all events. . .indeed, where does the division lie between mortal manifestation and something more akin to an opportunity to be moved as a divine vessal?

I stood ready to sleep in the lobby. She called me back with a heart so big. A profound story evolves within me. A story of love and angels, a story that has enough room to somehow fit my mother, the other women, Leticia, and Liz together in a beautiful way that crowns this moment with her the most important of all. The Love that is Now. And I get a sense of possibility, of mortals loving so much, so purely, commitedly, and self-sacrificially that, where before I was the devil, today I have learned enough to be (potentially) an angel.

My pulp-fiction philosopher (who has been guiding me since I was 13), Dean Koontz, says in his latest novel during our stormy flight into Seattle and on to Ontario, "Life is about 3 stages: 1) Boot Camp 2) Service 3) Eternal Life (and/or Freedom?)"

I muse that my 12 year induction to Los Angeles, essentially my coming-of-age, has been boot camp. I know that my graduation test began that morning after we found O'Brian and Little Sister, when I stayed up all night to witness the most beautiful morning I could remember since infanthood, as though I'd never seen it before. I know that my test was Leticia, and God Bless her forever, I know I passed.

I muse that with Liz we stand to rise above such silliness entirely, be husband and wife, lovers forever, and not suffer this whole heeba-jeeba of loss and remorse. And I do believe we believe this generally.

My baby girl has worn the cloak of the night and has reigned as the Queen of Darkness. Be that as titilating as it may for my own dark fantasies, she went that path not as one would dream of being something great, but as a spiritual inability to be broken. Notwithstanding, the pain of her reign has not entirely been exorcised.

As our long night proved, Love heals. And it is indeed refreshing to know that, as much Love as I take, I do after all have Love to give.

Her brother picks us up at the airport -- where the distracting loveliness of the female form was, in Montana, a savory find, in Ontario it is (as Los Angeles always is) a porn festival of outrageously, provacatively dressed girls and women. Somehow this both depresses the shit out of me, and gives me hope that no one of these masterfully construed bags of shit and piss has any game that can hit my achilles heal.

Watching Anastacia also gives me the duality full-on: She is no older than I was in the house at Echo Lake which Mom and Dad drove us to see. She is stumbling quickly and with more confidence towards her terrible twos, and it looks exhausting. She is far, far more able to cause mischief than any pet I can think of less than a monkey. She happily explores language but joyfully pretends to not understand a word of it. So her freedom is boundless, despite many boundaries. Punishment is required and I see it given justly.

The duality is this: Hell no, I don't want to spend my time doing that, and on the other hand, there could be nothing more engaging, challenging, and gratifying.

Amazingly, the answer to that question does not actually put more pressure on my fear that I am not man enough to wear my wings. After all, the whole world is obviously fucked with its social head buried in its proverbial ass -- basically, the heiness level required to even be accused a bad parent is outrageously worse than I could ever do. And terrible parenting, shitty education, and miserable circumstances seem to be the norm.

I really don't see any argument other than "Am I willing to accept responsibility in raising a child?" Of course, yes. Yes a thousand times. Yes until the sky falls. The child within me chuckles because he knows I have LOVED being raised and raising a fantastic mesh of children, of whom most all were adults. In a way, I am already a parent several times over, with Tacia, with Susie, and Derek to name a few. I speculate that adding another will not overly tax me, and in fact, recalling the quality that these people bring to my life, it could even make me feel better.

So things are good. I guess that's about as honest a confession as I can make.

The Things That Slip Away Forever

A quiet dream of childhood has found its way into my weekly routine.  The rings, the parallel bars, and the pull-up bar -- I guess you'd call it recreational gymnastics.  I have been doing it simply for the joy of self-motation and discovery.  I have no aspirations of joining clubs, competing, or even showing off.  It just fits in my overall exploration of physical confidence and balance.

I have always liked to exercise, but I had a childhood environment ill-suited for becoming well-trained.  On one hand, I was too self-inclined to receive instruction from my father, and on the other, he was busy burying his own bullied childhood in career and hobby.  Furthermore, I was shy and before 6th grade, I never lived in one place long enough to make friends or get involved with any of the normal physical tributaries.

By the time I finally found my way on to a skateboard and basketball court, I was so ill-coordinated and weak that it was only a short time before I had broken bones and injuries which would debilitate me through my 20s.

My greatest influence, in fact, was my mother.  I remember sitting in various Elk's Foundation or community centers with Daryl Hall & John Oats, Pat Benetar, and other 80s euro-electro-dance combos moving a bunch of leotarded women in unison.  I was not inspired, but the combination of music and movement somehow made natural sense to me.

Not surprisingly, my journey from home to adulthood took me directly into the American heart of hip-moving music and dance -- Latino Los Angeles.  My high-school exercise routines were forgotten within several years of being here.  I was killed by the overwhelming talent of my classmates at Art Center.  Having thought of myself as among the best, the shock that I was just a country-bumpkin was crippling.  I ducked my head and walked off the campus like I had something more important to do.

Instead, I wandered.  I started practicing guitar.  I replaced my dreams with women and an exploration of this gigantic and mysterious place called the city.

I was totally self-conscious and utterly unfamiliar with dancing and social games, so it indeed took 12 years just to find a secure place within myself.  In this time, I muse that I was dead in a way.  I made no effort to direct my life in any direction.  Opportunities, miracles and better, were happening around me, but I drifted and remained broken on the inside.

By my late 20s, I was recognizing that I'd taken the wrong turn and that my dreams were as close as my willingness to achieve them.  I had an experience of being reborn and apparently a childhood as well.

My "walk of shame" was a great display of personal pride and accomplishment -- almost like a graduation.  It required the courage to say that I had coveted my talent and ambition for fear of failure.  It signified my desire to show-all, not back down, and own my personal power.

People often ask me why I did such a thing.  The only explanation I have( that is still strong in my heart )is the memory of the 15 minutes before leaving the apartment.  I sat naked meditating and I pleading with myself not to do it.  For embarressment, for my family, etc.  As clearly as another person talking to me, my Self told me, "You have been challenged. You may either meet the challenge and accept the outcome, or you may try to bury it and watch yourself squirm in your insecurity for years-to-come until this day lives in your memory as the last chance you ever had."

Having already made that choice in childhood, I had to go the path less troden.  Life is a feast.  I knew in my heart, and Leticia often echoed it: I was still eating baby-food.  I had to grow up and get on with life.

After having risen to this singular and dramatic occaision, I have discovered that every day offers challenges to greater and lesser degrees.  Whereas this used to be a constant torment, it begins now to unveil itself as the greatest thing ever!  At this point in my life, I have both ducked the confrontation and met it head-on.  I see now that I have this full arsenal of options in every situation and with each day a growing body of experience upon which to make my choice.