Hike to the Boqueron & 'Volcano' by Damien Rice

I had the chance to take two Californians, Martin and Jerry of Kean Coffee, up to the El Boqueron - San Salvador. Took a few pictures and asked a lot of volcano questions, while Martin, a former archeologist, who shared extensively about the workings of volcanic eruptions and how they develop and form such a structure. Solid hike and lunch at Las Brumas, overlooking San Salvador. By days end all the talk of volcanos had me thinking of a favorite, plus another favorite, singing this tune. 

)

JM Barrie 'Peter Pan'

(In a sort of way he understands what he means by "Yes, I know," but in most sorts of ways he doesn't. It has something to do with the riddle of his being. If he could get the hang of the thing his cry might become "To live would be an awfully big adventure!" but he can never quite get the hang of it, and so no one is as gay as he. With rapturous face he produces his pipes, and the Never Birds and the Fairies gather closer till the roof of the little house is so thick with his admirers that some of them fall down the chimney. He plays on and on till we wake up).

bow and arrow

when i was ten years old, 
my parents gifted me a bow and arrow. 
christmas eve, 1997 
i became the most untamed human in suburbia lantana,
forever dressed in a bare chest and boyhood, 
this forty-five pound, 
slightly camouflaged compound bow, 
wedded my left hand;
with the round tipped aluminum arrows, 
quivered tightly inside the back right pocket of my blue jeans; 
their, solid colored feathers
brushing between my shoulder blades as i prowled the living room, 
i was 
an imagination
to be reckoned with. 

it nearly took my father's every breath to keep me indoors til’ morning,
and i remember the drive with my mother out to wellington, 
to pick up the three hay bales, 
that would stand behind a foam target 
and catch stray arrows.
i appeased my parents,
shooting at that foam target,
but all eternity knows i really aimed at much more fabled prey.

after school
i would rehearse, 
religiously 
in the backyard, 
like my future as robin hood depended on it; 
i imagined these scenarios in which 
i’d be selected out of a crowded arena
to step down onto the floor 
and shoot one arrow 
for the chance to save everybody's lives. 
i rescued and lost millions daily,
but always ended with triumph, 
and together with the rejoicing masses 
we’d tramp back into the porch
to celebrate with a bottled root beer.    

sixteen years later,
my bow gathers dust on the top shelf of my parents garage;
and its string 
has most likely rotted;
but every so often, 
on nights my arena 
is crowded with a pretty laugh
and sea eyes,
i remember with envy 
how confidently 
i use to draw back that string to my right cheek,
aim and let fly,  
arrow to hay bale,
arrow to fencepost, 
arrow to neighbors yard, 
as if my ability to hit the bullseye 
had all afternoon to wait for the back pocket full of my best tries;
after all,
i only need one
the sun sets long in my daydreams, 
and she said a root beer sounds really good right about now. 

A pleasure to meet you Fiona

I thought it was scientifically impossible to love two people more, until they became three, and before I knew it I was being introduced to their baby girl; as if God reached into my heart and made it exponentially bigger to fit each and every one of her red hairs and one month old tears to be rocked to sleep against her mothers chest, inside.

In 5 days they leave for Edinburgh; and to borrow the words of Zach himself, its rough that I don't know when I'll see you next. So I'll pray god willing and godspeed to you three; I hope soon we'll make four and tea in your wood floored Scottish living room.

It was a pleasure to meet you Fiona. You have the best parents a baby could ask for. Someday you'll know that; and I hope I can tell you about the time your mom called me, and said, "I just couldn't keep it inside Mike;" and the night your pops couldn't sleep, and in the 2 am Florida darkness of our living room, said he couldn't leave town without her knowing he was a changed man. 

You are the daughter of a great love story, best one I know. 

"look at the cathedrals"

“you know what we need right now Mikey? 

a joint.” 

he said it naturally, 

as if it were less his thought, and 

more his reaction, 

like he meant it; 

meant it louder than the honking of the passing street busses; 

and louder than the laughter of school girls 

impressing school boys. 

i’d just finished telling him why 

i needed to turn down his offer to lunch, 

my stomach, 

had been bothering me all weekend, 

and it were no different 

as we pulled into the parking lot near the largest 

outdoor shopping mall in san salvador; 

my bus stop;

i just wanted to get back to the farm and sleep. 

“god put the treasure in the soil, 

you just remember that,” 

and i would, 

i told him so, 

truth was i wished i did smoke weed, 

just so i wouldn’t have to tell him no 

when he cared so deeply, 

but i try to follow the laws i can, 

“they don’t know what people really need Mikey, 

they ban this here, god-given thing, 

meanwhile capitalism is a free market;

and the devil struts about, 
shouting: look at the cathedrals!

just look at 'em Mikey, 

all around us

pointing to heaven like middle fingers. 

jesus christ, 

at least we have the cigars, 

grab the cigars Mikey, 

really, 

i bought them in Guatemala.” 

and we did have cigars, 

old cigars 

dried out from a glove box 

and summer,

but the difference didn’t phase me, 

it seldom does, 

our gap of forty years

bridged by sunday sun and smoke billows;

i rested my arm on the downed window 

and forgot about my stomach, 

i wouldn't forget the day. 

a year later Eddy Brooks, 

you’re still a good man in my book.