Three colours green, or what I seen.

I'm on the road again. Behind me storm clouds obscure the Emerald City and ahead the sky leans close to the earth for a kiss drenched with longing. If I reach my hand out the window I can trace my fingers through the scoops and cottons of cloud, the breath of the sky, it's a tender moment between the now and forever and I'm racing between the two, an insect, an atom, a tiny nothing relected in the dark still waters of eternity. 

The horizon is a sensual hallucination of a lover's curves, blushed verdant and alive after the return of a love thought lonely and lost, the tears of remorse having doused the dry cracked wrinkles of drought and doubt while delight dances in delicious delirium, the trees, the grass, the flowers, even the scattered granite monuments of a prehistoric orgasm seem to have awakened, such is the explosion of sensation and life. 

 This place populated in a blink, untouched for millions of years beforehand, paradise neither lost nor regained, but simply created, it waited and I take it all in, everything, three hundred and sixty degrees of breathtaking insanity, and within the whirlpool my senses are freed and my ego shed and every thought floats and dances, a single, clear butterfly, dancing a scatter in pockets of memory and wonderment. 

 On the highway I find what always seems to elude me, one path, laid out in front, and all you need to do is drive toward tomorrow, through valleys and towns decorated in gold, nature's mourning pennant as the earth prepares to sleep in post-coital bliss, its back turned to the father, the sun, the holy three months before the resurrection of the land. 

And in the meantime we continue to scurry and scamp, little lives with big troubles, alive on the back of a sleeping dragon. A cave where I have chosen to come to meditate rabid demons of thought and reflection. To let go of everything - to understand - to step back from the painting - to hold my thumb up to my life and see what works and what does not - and the painting bleeds colours and moods and random patterns flipper and scat and laughter is mixed with sadness and love with loss but under the mix, the palette retains a finish of hope and excitement, for an unknown future is a creation waiting to happen.

Where the road takes me...

3.

Of course it was always a Hope that I would find a family. Truth is I stayed out of sight all year, because I knew I didn't belong anymore. That somewhere out in the world were my tribe, and I needed to transmogrify myself in order to find them. So I waited, watching the stars from time to time, choosing my actions carefully. Well, most of the time.

Here in Portland the first moment happens. I sit outside a diner with a musician from NYC who lives in Oslo and a Norwegian film maker and we talk as brothers. They talk about my songs. They say, people like you and I, and the oak leaves tumble and spin around us and my heart flips and shudders and I phoenix, right there on the street. I am now people like You. I have made a complete reality swap. I am an International Gypsy, and I am Home, and it all hits me until I struggle to hold myself down. I feel as though I am lifted beyond all that I ever was. Everything that is said is right.

Later that night I am in a bar, in a photo booth, and I am drunk on champagne. Mark and Jessy whisper to each other, and begin to tell me of other family members. In Paris, in New York, in Berlin, in in in...and everyone is a part of each other, and I can see the World I had only dreamed of finding, right here, sitting in my hands. They smile as we drink shots of whiskey, and they say - welcome to the family.

We sit up singing songs in the apartment until 5, 6am. There are no barriers. Every story is open to everyone. We sing. We plan. And I know, that these plans will come true. I know honesty now that I have found it.

I am stretched across this world into a new Universe.
And I am Home.
The Road is Home.