Love Me Till The Sun Shines

I just realized, like JUSt now, that my mom so graciously cleaned out my desk drawers for me the day I left home...which means she found my poetry volumes, which means she's read my poetry, which means her feelings are potentially hurts, which means....She hasn't mentioned it at least, so maybe she found them and uncharacteristically set them aside. HOME this weekend, and none of this fanfare for me. I'm genuinely happy to be going home. So miserably happy to be going home. Driving down the freeway blasting 1979 with my girl Celeste, telling her about all the hot Mormon boys she's missing out on. Roughing up the $3.95 section at Rasputin's with Kevin. Late night/early morning walks with Perry, stopping at the playground in Walnut Knolls to check for someone's leftover vodka so we can dump it out and save the little kids who play there, baking in the warm Blessed Sun. Driving aimlessly with Helen, going to the Pleasant Hill AND Walnut Creek libraries in the same day, walking to Bonanza Books to smell the musty, over-priced aroma one normally only finds in Shattuck's holes-in-the-wall. Listening to George Harrison's last album right now, the one Ariel gave me. Surprisingly happy for a dying man. Love the ukelele song. Love the fact that for being an unbelievably good song, "Here Comes the Sun" never made it to #1. So excited to go home, see my mountains, see my puppy before they sell her, see my beautiful electric guitar whose strings have been played all too little. Good thrift stores! Berkeley! Sadly there's no time for San Fran, but San Fran! Thanksgiving will come and I'm in SF all the time. Kevin is contemplating moving there; I concur darling Kevin-san. I crave our glorious city, Provo's antithesis, my heart's home. I, along with Frank Sinatra, left my heart in San Francisco and I simply MUST retrieve it! Sitting in Brigham Square today - Eddie saw me from far away, but as he walked through he pretended as though he didn't see me. I said slyly, "Hello, Eddie," and he turned to me, indicating I'd passed his test. Chatted a bit, but the smoke outside was unbearable and he had class. I don't feel like writing anymore. I have nothing more worth writing. Lew Welsh- "The Basic Con," not "The Invented Con." Sorry Sean Darling. Perhaps I will bring some of my books back to Utah with me. One can always use their Camus and Hemingway, wouldn't you say?