Casa Libre: Day 1

I drove through the dark, topping out at 90, nearly legal even then. Passing semis with a shudder. There was the hour I spent crawling through rush hour traffic listening to your songs, singing those words, thinking. In dreams the car represents the self, the body. Where we go in it is a portent. After a crash, we say, He hit me! although he did no such thing: he struck my vehicle, myself.

The space inside the car is psychically small and only allows a finite number of thoughts to exist. They were all of you.

I arrived, set up my little camp in the suite, tucked my clothes behind the blind, ate a brownie my mom packed along for me. Unloaded the stack of books and arranged them like a Doric column on the shelf: imposing and Greek. Hopefully not to be a tragedy. But you never know.

I need a store, like a Target—one place to sell white wine and shaving cream, although I may not shave the whole while I'm here. I need little else: I have it all here. And nightly, your voice arrives from the ghost world and tells me about tomorrow. I'll be listening. There is no distance between us, not now.


  1. Charles, I liked these intimacies.

  2. Anonymous3:25 PM

    Wonderful stuff, as always. Very vivid. A beautiful blend of dream state, symbology, and reality.