It’s a story that I will tell. The negotiations with myself have not gone well. Logic, good-taste, and style have conversed, subtlety lobbied by my sub-conscious and conscious yearnings and the result? A self-justified abstinence or privacy. Considerations of exhibitionism. The wish for approval. The care-taking of a self-image, despite being uncertain which picture I present. Whatever I do, prescribed or automatic or managed, it’s me.

Truth. Formed truth. An out-pour of words. Managed or stream-of-conscious. Managed stream-of-conscious. Filters. Truth is that I am happy and proud. I’ve told many that I could not be happier. I don’t chase happiness. At least, I don’t think I do. Maybe you or others will perceive differently?

I will proceed with this phrase: “Love the house you’re in.”

Trying to express whatever it is I am deciding to express, I have learned I prefer an audience. Visualizing a someone or a something or a group to address is helpful. Speaking with someone. Intuiting. This condition directed me to write long-ish emails to my closest friends. Though, I fear I may have over-extended, become long-winded and detailed. Overtold stories. Borish. Too self-critical? Second-guessing my gushing. More filters?


An audience. A direction for these ramblings. I choose the Indigo Children.

The house I am in is in El Tremedal, Avila, Spain, but that’s not what the quote refers to – for me, I take the phrase to mean: the house of Fred. Love what Fred is. The phrase rings true for me. Like a lot of y’all, I am moved by song lyrics. They mark time in my life. A sign or anchor. A portal through which I can return. Wormhole from now to then. Or from this place to that place. They decode and frame – what is happening now, the now passes, and is burried under other nows. Or left behind, like an exit off the highway. When I heard this lyric by Spencer Krug, it spoke to me, said something I, myself, could not formulate, like so many experience, the song framed an abstract feeling. I received confidence from this song. It’s okay. I am me. Who else could I be? So with infused with this perspective, I will write.

The summer of 2016. Like the summers that proceeded 2016, we drove to California to visit the community and work their gold claim.