The Last Frontier Days

But tonight I feel like a strung bow, arrow knocked, ready to hit its target if I could trust faith were a strong marksman. Good thing Kit Carson’s on our team. Oh, now you fucked up baby. Time’s up, just like you wanted, just like you said. With it came the cats, the ginger-colored longhaired female, Quinn, the Russian Blue, father of the unfortunate Independence, with his silky grey coat and plaintive cry. An unseasonably warm day, dreaming of Boulder, with our attempts to rewrite history becoming more fantastic and frantic, we wished the future would get here more quickly. Someone unseen and unnamed shoots both Carson and Mike. Kim’s final words echo, “What the FUCK!?!”

He chose a little white wood-frame house by a creek. It was a Sears, Roebuck “kit house” from the late 1920s. There was nearly an acre of garden land in the back, with fruit trees and a bounty of blackberry bushes. The thorns of an invasive species you despise. We moved to town in November, and settled in for the winter, anticipating long days of snowboarding, skiing, and drunken lovemaking and massages afterward. The vivacious and virulent Summit County is like a drug burning through our veins. Of the cats from Riverwest, another longhaired orange tabby of Quinn’s temperament was found to replace Quinn. By springtime we had scraped up enough money to purchase the prefab house, and for the first time, we owned real estate, the only wealth beyond gold worth investing in.

Working in her sunny bedroom the Western Lands of happy immortality beckoned, coming down from the mountaintop to wander and suffer in the alleys of Riverwest. Fear no longer a factor, Boulder remained, in addition to the purchase of a summer farm near the Missouri River, home. This pilgrimage may take many lifetimes.

Traveling to St. Louis, in San Francisco, back to Tennessee and a tranquil little Depression-era lake resort, we meet friends for an evening’s cocktail, a cookout.

Kansas City remains like a phantom, the past never forgotten, before we embark on a prolific period of art-making in memorial to Timothy Leary and his band of Merry Pranksters. Nadeanna achieves her first serious art exhibition, coming to the end of words and the end of what can be done with mere words.

We began with pirate communes, a career based on an initial desire to better adjust the affairs of mankind. A meeting of the crew was called, shocking how few of us remained. We were not pirates. No! We were liberty lovers. The republic was in full operation. We lived in harmony amongst ourselves, misplaced society still judging us as vial pirates while men who sold others like beasts proved their religion to be no more than a mere grimace, as no man has ever truly had the power of liberty over another.

Faced by the actual practice of freedom, the French and American revolutions were forced to stand by their words. Haha! Any man had the right to settle in any area of his choosing.



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