I’m looking at the river
But I’m thinking of the sea
Thinking of the sea
Thinking of the sea
I’m looking at the river
But I’m thinking of the sea

—  randall stuart newman

—

Maybe it’s just a dream. Hard to say.

I’m standing on the edge of a river. Or maybe it’s the ocean. I’m with a couple of people I don’t know and niece the younger, before FiFi Dubois and Frida Pearl came along. We seem to be on a journey of some sort.

Kate, the niece, is smitten with a young man we are following. This leads us to a town square. And a memorial for Old Bob.

I have no idea who Old Bob is. He apparently is the beloved owner of a dusty bookstore in this little town. It’s got the vibe of the Van Gogh store in Van Horn, but with more water and less paint.

There’s a huge clock on the wall that doesn’t work, its hands frozen at 1:30. Remember when there was no a.m. or p.m.? The people here gather around it, amid rows and rows of musty books, the kind folks used to read before the internet came along.

Everyone has a story to share about Old Bob. He seems to have been a kind man, the kind of person you could come to when you needed summer reading or a sandwich or life advice.

And after everyone has spoken, I see Rick.

My older brother was the kind of gentle soul who was friends with everyone, from community leaders to storytellers to stray dogs. This apparently includes Old Bob.

Rick stands on a bench and tells stories about how Old Bob knew exactly which Elmer Kelton book he was trying to remember or the directions to that forgotten Boquillas border crossing, back before google maps took the magic out of navigation.

The people are entranced, laughing and crying and nodding and smiling as he delivers a eulogy that AI could never conjure up. They break into applause as he finishes.

And then we all head for lunch. Because mourning makes you hungry. Duh.

I walk with Kate, who seems to have lost interest in the object of her affection. She hangs on to me with her forefinger hooked into a small hole on the side of my Gramiccis. Her nails are bright orange. I have no idea why. I take her hand, but she shakes it off and goes back to clutching my shorts.

For a fleeting moment I feel like a real uncle, not just a make-believe one a thousand miles away.

We walk in silence to the ancient Land Cruiser, which appears to have made a triumphant return from its rusty slumber, and pile into the back seat.

Rick pulls into a parking lot that seems vaguely familiar. I know I’ve been here before, but can’t remember what it is. He says there’s a fantastic Mexican restaurant around the corner.

He lets us out of the jeep and says he’s going to park, but throws the old Toyota into four-wheel drive and begins driving up an endless set of stairs. I watch as my brother and the Land Cruiser slowly climb into the clouds.

And then Zuki, the terrorist cat, wakes me up.

What are dreams? What is real? Did Carlos Castaneda just make up Don Juan? Is there a separate reality on the other side? How could there NOT be?

I remember the Bloody Basin road where the saguaros turned into evil gnomes in the middle of the night. The Dupont Swamp where four days of nonstop canoeing led to a dazzling display of Christmas lights in the middle of the night on an abandoned river. The ghost car on a desolate I-10 coming home from the Guadalupes at 3 a.m.

Were they any less real than the monotony of Teslas veering through traffic on the freeway? Life is a movie; write your own ending, Kermit said. Never doubt a singing frog.

Today was the first day of the FitPAFPTP©. Three miles and change on the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso course, my primary home for the next 21 weeks. I’m almost certain it was real. But so was saying goodbye to Old Bob.

I’m starting from scratch, aiming for some particularly stupid goals. Will I get there? There’s no pace like gnome.

Or maybe it’s just a dream. Hard to say.