From Arcata

Last night I slept on a blue couch with a Siamese named Thurston puddling into the upholstry’s shoulder, watching over me.

He is part Calico too

Last night I saw the sea accepting the moon’s butters on its surface, I heard it coo with every unfurl.

When I am on tour, I like to stay awake when everyone has already fallen asleep, I like to find the last lightswitch to darken the room and I like to use my fingertips to find my way through the blackened house. I like to smile into the darkness, at the utter pleasure of “Where am I?” in this era of global positioning systems and street lamps. I start to sleep, cradled for one half hour by the pleasure of surrender in this foreign place, this strange home. I fall deeper into sleeping and I lose all perception of the space, I am in a stranger’s home, in a hammock of their sensations, the purr of their dishwasher, the scent of their garbage can and kitchen cleansers, under the watch of their cat.
In Seattle, we drank beer from Belgium in an acorn hut and I walked to our sleeping spot alone. I climbed a hill and peered into every alley. Adventures. I am surprised what I see in the dark corners. I remember, early in my liberation, going to a very fancy party and painting my cheek with cork and climbing into a rich man’s closet in order to kiss, we were nude in a cocoon of wool suits. I was liberated at age 23. Before that, I did have many adventures, even in the halls of governments in Brussels and in Mexican buses, but the real adventures started at 23, when I started darting into dark places alone, climbing into backyards to pluck flowers, with no partner and no witnesses.