In utero my beating heart was so so driving, urging, really. That maddening creciendo has always pounded on, even after the birth cavity; through bicycle-skinned knees, first kisses and last hugs; through, I think, a confused and utterly mesmerizing emotional trip. Clud ump clud ump clud urumpm, with slight irregularity as if to suggest something more is coming. Yes, I know, as we all do, that coming and coming is inevitably death. But, there are moments in life when the beckoning hushes and we truly rest. Mine, it just so happens, has seemed dullest while drinking whiskey, eating cheese, and reading random postcards in the hull of the mighty ship, Specs. The anti-utero, and plain-ol good joint.
I haven't been back in 6 years, but I have written postcards to myself, sitting there six years ago. And to others, sitting there now. No stamps or pen to paper, but long mental reaches through time and space to peaceful sippers, sipping silently, quipping over the hugeness of it all. Or just getting sh$-faced on toddies.
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