Thing are happening.

So I write. Again. Here we are again. They are voice and arguments and thoughts, jumbled, crackling, vibrating with the energy of falling stars. I squint, trying to focus on the intangibles. Someone complains, but I care not.

Things are happening.

There are new adventures unfolding, and one is approaching a culmination, and there are others only beginning to peek from beneath their covers. I use amusement and laughter as my daily tools. I am No Fear Cavalier.

There was Christmas with the family. A new camera. A DVD player. Bowling. Reno and snowboarding, and I caught lightning with the dice. My fingers tingled and neon danced in my eyes. I handed them my money, but they handed me more. We laughed. We screamed. We rode the lightning for a night. We donned bad English accents and constantly repeated James Bond movie dialect. For the first time, I grabbed on with both hands and pointed my face upwards.

There was a time in Sunol, where I sat on a bench, and enjoyed the sun setting on my face. I chatted with a well-dressed man who smoked and fingered a gold chain holding a watch. For most of the moments, I said nothing, sipping my ginger ale, letting my eyes wonder the shadows of the golden hills. I met a total stranger to sell her concert tickets, and we wound up chatting about our extensive concert experiences. We shared a love and enjoyment of music for a drink. The well-dressed man glanced at us and smiled, as if two old friends had convened for their nightly discourse. The moment and the drink were soon over, and we headed into the darkening evening to return to loved ones.

There was the weekend past and a town called Elk. We fled the daily rote and headed for the ocean, and if were lucky Ė whales. We packed our bags and jumped into the chariot, stocked in music and good cheer. They were no plans, no pressing matters, no phone calls to be returned. There were no phone or no TVs. There was only the ocean. At first the sound of the ocean started me, rough, angry, pounding. I could feel the concussion of the crashing waves. Whomp! It was an endless charge, and seemingly hopeless. We stopped at our favorite local store, and rounded off our supplies with a bottle of wine (Husch Pinot Noir), smoked gouda cheese, freshly sliced salami, a deli pickle, and some bottled water. We fell into the room and smiled uncontrollably for a while. The Pacific Ocean filled our view, and the smell of her filled me and revitalized me. She was there, she was everywhere. It had become she, and she was no longer rough. Powerful yes. We placed our hands on our hips, tapped our fingers, lit the fireplace and waited for relaxation. We napped. When we awoke, there was wine and fruits and crackers and strawberries and chocolates. There was Billie Holiday and John Coltrane to set the mood. There were candles. And there was a moon low enough to hang our worries and troubles on for the night. And best of all, there were kisses and laughter.

There are other moments, like moonshine glittering on waves, like a butterfly landing on your hand, like a hummingbird pausing to study you, like a strangerís sudden smile. There are moments that you wished you wrote down, or took a picture of, or somehow could store like secret treasure. There are a lifetime of these moments, and of these I am ever so grateful.

There are people as well, that have come and helped me. They have showed me great kindness. I remember their faces and their voices. I remember what they did. But I cannot remember their names. I remember now an elderly woman that rode in our vanpool. She was quiet, but when she spoke, it was thoughtful and meaningful. Sometimes she would drive me home, since I it took me about 15 minutes to walk to the vanpool stop, and she lived right there. We worked at a shipyard, and there were submarines there. I was fascinated by these complicated machines, and collected photos and stickers of all the different boats. She heard me talking about my collection, and asked if I was interested in World War II submarines. She invited me back to her house, where she handed me a tri-fold photo layout of the boat her husband (he had passed away) had served on. It was beautiful, and my eyes lit up. She then talked about her husband, and casually remarked that he had played in Major League Baseball. I was stunned. I was eager to her the stories, and she seemed delighted to tell them to me. It was a wonderful afternoon. I remember her voice, I remember her face, her expressions, and I remember her kindness. I do not remember her name. And that saddens me to no end. It seems that Iíve somehow failed as a human being. How could I repay such kindness with forgetfulness?

There are moments, there are places, and there are people. So many wonderful, memorable things. Sometimes, I remember some of these, along with other forgotten details, in my dreams, right before I wake up. Iím crossing my fingers. Iím hoping you come along, and tell me your name.