I suppose that I should get right to it, since there isn’t much time.

That sounded dramatic, didn’t it? Not intended, or maybe I did- but meaning for the evening. There is a busy schedule ahead and the fact that I am even doing this at all is a sign of my intrepid or desperate commitment to the bit. Your humble narrator is a lot of things, dear reader, not all of them good- but I certainly seem to always buy into my own delusions. Perhaps some great price to pay will be upon me before long, but I cannot let such tribulations shake the resolve so self made and indulgent.

Truth be told, it’s not even evening here. That said, it is the South and there are storms about- so I think that is gothic enough to count. This old port city, known as a haunted place, I’ve been here several times now. One of these days, I’ll actually explore the place instead of the few blocks of bars that I normally haunt. Something to the old buildings, and tired trees who sprawl out and have their leaves languish in threads as if pulled against their will from the earth. That, or fighting their way back towards her.

Not a place I could live, I don’t think. But then again, I don’t live currently anywhere much near where I thought I’d end up. Life, eh? Funny, old thing.

I’ve been wondering about what I might get at in this short span I have allotted. Was thinking about it since I knew I would be down here on this day between Sunday and Tuesday. I was thinking about it as I started out on the road two mornings and a thousand miles ago. While listening to record suggestions from folks I adore. As the cold grew to mild, and from mild to warm and hazy. Spanning the near full breadth of this nation’s original conglomerations. Rebellious colonies with an ocean away from them to play with ideas of liberties and such- even with all the contradictions and atrocities about and abound. Not to excuse the less than morally upright habits and economies of a good many rebels we call founders now, but hypocrisy between the ideals and the actions is abundant enough in history. Those who deny the mistakes and horrors occurring during the founding of this place near two and a half centuries old do history injustice. As do those who believe that nothing good can be gotten from imperfect beings trying and failing at better worlds.

The key is to keep trying. And trying forward, even when we don’t know exactly what that means. It doesn’t mean reverting back to barbarism, and it doesn’t mean repeating the same actions that have already failed in the exact. We shave away the bad of our ancestors as best we can, while making sure we don’t throw away the good. And anything we can deal with while we’re around, we should. If not to make way for the more pressing problems of our progeny and such, at least to lighten the load.

I know, I know- easier said than done. But since it is saying(writing) that is being done here, or in your case listening (reading)- I might as well say it. This future isn’t hopeless. Not yet. And even though we are constantly bombarded with the appearance orfsocial decay. And truthfully not just the appearance but a reality, in more than one way- yet despite that, I still cling to the hope that better might still be got in spite of all the decadence. And the key, at least for I, is that the hope is not for me. Not that I’ve given up on myself, not yet damn it- but a brighter future matters not to those who would profit from it today. We’re supposed to be the ones paying for the horizon’s illumination. The hope we hold should be for those that come after us. Not just immediately, either. Not just the ‘next’ generation. But actions and ideas that will continue to benefit so far forward that this time which holds us now will be long enough away to be called myth. Gratification felt throughout the ages, instead of this impulsive greed we can never seem to shake for long.

But like I said, easier said than done.

So of this, and a great many other things I thought as I vaguely traced the Atlantic coast. Through passing through climates and cultures that only encompass a trackable number of miles, yet mean the world to those that reside within those tracks. Because that is their world. There was still dried salt from the streets so recently shoved free of snow on my back window, while my front was covered with splattered insects incessant and perpetual of these southern swamps.

Still, all a distraction. And were my energy and attention not so actively compelled upon my current cultural mission, there is likely only one thing I’d be thinking much about. That underlying ache that has been about for almost an entire trip around the sun. Today, this date, you know the one I put next to Monday Evening whatever- it’s an anniversary. Didn’t know it then, and maybe that’s because I wasn’t paying enough attention. But it’s a year since I last spoke to my friend. I mean really spoke. The kind where you sit down and bare more than normal, because of the trust to people can have. Just a couple of mid-thirties sad boys, talking life. Acknowledging, listening, or at least I thought I was. I know he always did. Not performing for some superficial benefit, but just being as we were- tired, tragic and still insecure, not matter what other folks would tell us.

He picked me up that day, my friend. I thought I was doing a bit of the same. And maybe I was, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Maybe it was never going to be enough. He made a lot of time for me, went out of his way to make sure we had this day, just he and I. I thought we’d be friends for life, and I suppose we were. Just thought, and hoped, it would be longer.

I saw him one more time. Playing his heart out to a more empty room than usual. I have a feeling that is how he wanted it.

But a week after we sat in my living room, he was gone. There he remains, for the rest of my stay on this mortal plane. I miss him, so much. And maybe I’m getting used to it, which I hate. And maybe I’ll feel less guilty about how much I am likely to smile tonight, but he would tell me not to do that. It’s still there, underneath, always. This pain. My life forever changed. Just like when he first emerged into my reality.

That’s the hardest part, I suppose. It’s not saying goodbye to someone that you love. It’s not realizing that it was your last goodbye until it is.

I’ll wish for the rest of my life that I had done more, while knowing that there might have been nothing anyone could have done.

But for now, I have to gather myself, dear reader. Donning my Converse and kilt. My bandana and guitar. Out to be the life of the party. Someone has to make the bagpipes sound good, after all.

But the party ends, and this will still be here. So, no rush on it, I suppose. I’ll have this in my heart for the rest of my days. Which I still plan on having many more ahead.

I know you can’t read this. I don’t know if you ever did. Any time I would talk about books or writing, you’d always say the same thing. ‘I can’t read, bud.’

But in the effort of perhaps fruitless emotional gesture, I’ll say it.

I miss you, bud. And I love you. Always will.