“You wouldn’t believe how badly I’ve missed him”… I hear that a lot from your friends and family. There are a lot of things I’d tell you, you were right about. The IRS, relationships, having a plan for when things go too right. I realized yesterday as I was working on another task you would have solved simply… that I still haven’t put together your monument/sculpture. I could never make myself track down Bo again bc I have enough iron to do it myself why worry him. So I started yesterday. Its gotta be pretty low profile to go reverently unchallenged at the coffee shop. Its amazing how little the place pulls my attention with you gone. I have a new thought for it these days… rather than build something that is completed and 15ft tall, you can sit on this. What you gave us was a foundation… we never understood your heights of achievement but we understood the CORE of the power. I am building the mechanism, the heart, the core. It must be nearly impossible to move, so far 4 men could drag/budge it, but it will prolly go into its place on rollers as you would have moved it some how effortlessly. The sculpture won’t be complete until your two daughters are sitting on it. I haven’t been able to pray lately so I hope this will find you. Tell the Prime Mover I said hello, I’m sure he has put you to work building a world. You can come talk to me you know… I won’t get freaked out. -theDick
I have dreaded this post since Peter first declared the name of the website he wanted to start.
July 28, 2016: Peter Drummond died last night… I have been writing all week and hate most of what was coming out, like a spoiled child hating God I have wrestled with death on ugly and immature levels. Its not the leaving, its the downward spiral that makes me wrench. We have never disclosed our names until now… my name is Jeremy Thomley and Peter was my friend and mentor. In some ways… a mirror.
July 26, 2016: Soon the universe will reshuffle to make room for the self that is Peter Drummond. He was a man of dignity and carried himself like the men of a different age. He belonged to an old school of seagoing adventure and mischief. Peter was not without scandal, and heartache. I like to believe he experienced all that a man could in this life. He was a man of achievement and success… his experiences were of incalculable worth, he died rich. His family loved him as if a demigod, but they knew better, they knew him- and they loved him anyway, hell they loved him more for it. Had he been any more than he was, we might have hated him. I knew him as the Exquisite Bastard; he and his family called me the dick.
The Master Salvor was a man of large stature. It wasn’t enough to say he was taller than the rest of us because he was still bigger than tall men. Peter fought lung cancer for 9 years. It got into his bones and after they amputated his pinky finger it wasn’t long before it got into his back. I never saw him on pain meds until the end. I never saw him not himself until the end; and in the end he taught us even more. One thing that always struck me about Peter was his belief in the end. I never heard him call himself an atheist but thats what most would call him. There was no greater admirer of a craftsman than Peter. No man appreciated achievement and skill more than he. He made it his business to know the history of the world and love the people in it. His gratitude for life makes me believe that however the Prime Mover makes himself known to Peter, they will be friends when they meet. Ye that worry for his soul, worry not but for your own. Damn it man; he was great for the sake of good. The Lord loves Yankees too.
I will miss you friend… you were so tough and cool I never told you I loved you… I never hugged you. I will honor our agreement. Rest my friend, enjoy the crescendo.
zI found myself pleased with how the end is lining up.
The medical personel will not tell you of any kind of prognosis but if you word the queation in the form of advice for preparing for your care as things move towerds requireing assistance with ‘Normal Life Funtions’ and you talk to the nurse assistant to the Doctor while she is filling you in befor the doctor arrives, you can get what they know.
So a year ago i asked the nurse lady how long befor i began experieancing diffculties maintaining an active life style and begin makeing arrangments for assistance, she told me a year. Today , a year or so later i cannot take the water survivel class, and it is with difficulty trying to stand and direct others for over 6 hours or so.
I now resurch every thing as it develops and have put together a good picture of how long left and the type of experieance ‘departing life’ is going to be (if i allow nature to take its course),
I have come up with a wonderfull alternative to nature taking is course and be gun to outline a plan for the actual ‘departing life’ event.
This has freed my mind of meaningless burden and filled me with pleasure in almost every moment and aspect of life. I have not worked out how to work sex into my life close to the end. I think no sex for 2 years and then you die is not good.
‘your borne, lifes a bitch, no sex for 2 years and then you die’
Impossible things were done. He used science and cosigns like there were well known ingredients in food he fixed every day. I on the other paw understood the process like a clean handed man can understand engine theory. To get dirty with numbers and barges and cranes is a different understanding of the same subject. It was great to see him lead, great to see him strong. Were it not for the explosive coughing in the video footage you’d never think of mortality. Just men playing with heavy tools and toys. A 350 ton toy boat and 2 cranes with operators taking cues from crane commanders on the ground making funny broken wristed money movements with their fingers as the language made the giant boom swing. It was a great thing to be close to, a fine thing to fly over. Thanks for taking me, it was nice to spend time with the sheWolf too. Until Next Time- theDick
He knew nothing about cars but he liked this place anyway. It was like a museum, the old fords and chevrolets with their sun baked patinas and curling clear coats long flaked away. He would sneak in and walk through the cars and trucks thankful for the silence and shadows of the night. His headlamp make the world smaller and more pointed like the beam of light it cast. Its funny how having a light on your head makes you feel like the rest of the world disappears when your not looking that way. The desert wind left a layer of thick dirt on the old cars windows- when he pulled two fingers across the glass of this old white car without emblems he stopped and looked inside. The red leather seats were beautiful! The outside weather beaten and dented but the old hard body car was like a tank. He opened the door and slid onto the back seat, long and smooth the bench and interior were enormous. As he closed the door the dirt fell from the car doors windows and it shuddered a little. The junk yard cars were balanced on old tires and crude steel stands. He sat forward against the front seat examining the old radio and dials of that day. The knobs were simple and the trim beautiful. These old cars really had detail, the oversized steering wheel indicated it was before power steering. He rationalized that the cloudy windshield and glass had protected the cars interior and tank like as it was the was really well preserved. His headlamp scalded the rear view mirror shined back in his face blinding him. As his eyes refocused he wondered how long it had been since he had a place that was his? A pace nobody wanted, it was more than a secret- it was an escape.
He went often to the old white car. The Yonke fence was close to his house and he could crawl under it easily. After a long day at work and short run he would disappear into his “office”. He had cleaned the red leather till supple and slick. He made a little fire in the dirt beside the old car and sat back wondering why joshua trees burned so poorly. This smokey bastard of the fire he wanted was put out until he could bring better wood. The next time he filled the trunk with nicely cut bundle of tinder and logs and a notebook. The next day the workers drove their machines and people picked over the parts as usual but nobody noticed the fire stubble or the old white car. Curiosity got the best of him one day and he paid to go into the Yonke in the daytime just to get a feel for the place and see the owner. His Spanish was weak but he enjoyed the ambiguity. In his mind he had asked permission and paid a rent. He walked the lanes and ignored his office curiously walking like he was meeting his neighbors. When night fell and as he rolled under the fence he held his bourbon and headlamp out of the sand. His fire was modest and the night was beautiful. Tomorrow was Sunday and he figured he would stay his first night in the Yonke. The door was open and his feet were warmed by the fire as he read an old magazine he had found in the trunk. There were toy cars he had lined up on the dash, they looked as worn out as the cars around him. He drifted off to sleep. The morning came with a startle as a truck pulled down the lane his car was on. He reached over and shut the door knocking the dirt off the window just in time for a man in a big hat to come knock on it and ask him to step out. The two men talked and walked and the owner listened bewildered. He offered to buy the old white car if he could keep it in the junkyard. He explained how special this place was to him and the old man understood. They decided to move the old car closer to the hole in the fence beside his house. Sometimes after work the old man would come and sit with him and they would have a little drink, poke the fire and talk about their families. He never said the words out loud, but he liked to call it the red leather hideout.
Yonke is spanish slang for junkyard: pronounced like “donkey” but with a “y” (Yonkey) This story was born after a dream I had: it was nearly complete when I woke up- the character had no name, I assume it was me experiencing it but I don’t know for sure. Inspired by my days in El Paso junkyards no doubt and desert camping trying to burn joshua trees in California. Its funny how dreams reassemble your life into new stories. This would be a fun children’s book to illustrate. Might be a crappy children’s book but it would be fun to draw pictures of. No matter, I needed to write it, hope it inspires the Salvor to write.
So much is forbidden: they say its not an adventure till everything goes wrong… now we are living… Some laws are longstanding but not so universal as we are lead to believe.. they say Gravity is a more a habit than a law. Even the speed of light varies so much to get around reCalibrating things whenever it goes up or down they just named the unit of measure- the speed of light- or light year. And a kilogram… there is actually a lump earth meat alloy that sets the standard for weight. =Did you know as a boy I wanted to be a great jewel thief? That was my standard… a punk rock burn it down, don’t take no for an answer. Rebellion was always on the cusp. They knew it, they just didn’t have the heart to stop me, I think they were all curious to see is someone could break the laws they took for gospel and find happiness as an outlier. Well, like the speed of light happiness varies- the speed of life takes hold and reminds you in one way or another that you only get a certain number of sunrises to accomplish your dreams. I gamble too often that there will be another day in front of this one to wrap up my loose ends and big plans.
Fire on a cold night, shot of whiskey and the presence of a pretty girl. the needs of the end game, so simple